The King of Meteortown – Andy Henion

Greetings, Earthlings,

We Overlords normally try to publish stories that anyone can read. We have a mental picture of a friend of ours reading RGR stories to his younger kids. That’s why we publish lots of swashbuckling adventure space opera stories, and that’s where our collective hearts are most of the time. 

But every so often something comes into the slushpile and is bumped upstairs from the Slushmasters that falls outside of our normal fare. The King of Meteortown is just such a story: “This is very much my cup of tea, and I’m bumping it up but I’m not sure if it’s right for RGR. It’s brutal stripped to the bone pulp through and through. Didn’t want it to end. Just wow.”

We took a look at the story and almost immediately started shaking our collectively droll heads. The language! The attitude of the antagonist characters toward women! The nudity! 

But something funny happened on the way to vaporizing this story—it stuck.

Author Andy Henion knows what he’s doing. He’s penned a story where all of those harsh elements not only make sense, they add something to the story. I’m a sucker for a good redemptive story, and this is that, but in a weird sort of way. 

We shall be blunt: this story is not family-friendly. At all. But it is honest, and it is true, and it packs a wallop and leaves you thinking about it for days afterward. A great story is a great story, and this one is worth explaining a little, and worth the time to read. If you prefer something more seasonal and positive, I recommend “Gifts From the Galaxy” by Clinton Lawrence from our (always free) archives.

Granted, running this story just before Christmas is contrary programming, but sometimes you have to go with your gut.

Merry Christmas from the RGR Overlords. Mwahahahaha!

The King of Meteortown

by Andy Henion

I’m staring out my window at the beautiful gray expanse of the Hole when JD’s voice comes over the two-way.

“They’re in my home.”

I shake myself out of my trance. Hustle out to the truck and speed down the dirt road encircling the Hole. JD is on the opposite side, six-point-four miles away if you could drive across. If the Hole would allow it.

Houses blur by. A good third are falling down, bearing scorch marks from the event fourteen years prior. Another third holds families, and by families I mean an old man, maybe an old woman, in some cases a grown, stubborn son. Neighbors who dug in and learned to accept what life along the Hole brought them.

The rest of the homes are inhabited, off and on, by squatters. Folks drawn to the Hole for one reason or another. I let them stay as long as they don’t get themselves out on the Hole and turn on us. Which is what we have now.

The trees are thick as redwoods through here, the ferns taller than man. It isn’t so much a road as it is a prehistoric walking path for the residents. No one else drives. No reason to. We grow our own food out here, cut our own wood, take care of our own.

I skid to a stop in front of JD’s house. The front door is broken apart. I grab my nightsticks off the truck seat and run inside.

There are three of them. One is belly-up on the floor, throat gashed courtesy of JD’s blade. The other two have JD pinned to the couch, clothes hanging in tatters from her little gymnast’s body. They’re just figuring out what to do with her when I call out.

“Come on, then.”

The biggest one complies. Speed is part of it, and strength: you don’t want to go toe-to-toe with them. But they lack focus, and that’s to my advantage. I feint with the first stick, put the other hard behind his ear. He goes snarling to a knee and I come around with the other. And then each in succession, a furious windmill, collapsing his skull.

Now the smaller one comes away from the couch and JD grabs the knife from the floor and jumps him from behind, cursing as she goes. She buries the blade in his chest, using both hands to maneuver it back and forth, shredding his heart. He stumbles about, flailing, but in the end is resigned to holding the knife handle, squeezing her tiny hands in his, as he falls face-first to the floor.

Stillness. Juliet Demps and I stand facing one another, and I can see that she’s bleeding from the inner thigh, from the left breast. Once my boy’s high-school interest, she’ll be thirty-one this year. Back then she had the sweetest countenance, but that’s worn to something else, something harder.

“Let’s throw them in the Hole, Anthe.”

“These aren’t wanderers. They’ll be known. I’ll have to bring in the new man.”

She holds my stare for several moments before shaking her head and turning away.

“Bad idea, Constable. Bad fucking idea.”

And heads for the first aid kit, not bothering to cover herself.

The nameplate on his uniform reads Deputy Higgins. He’s tall and fresh-faced, another kid-cop assigned to the Hole.

He steps out of the cruiser with a cocksure grin.

“So you’re the King of Meteortown.”

“I’m the constable of this territory. Name is Anthe.”

“Anthe.”

“Come on inside, see what we got.”

He ignores this. “I hear you rule this place with an iron fist. Don’t let ‘em drive? No TVs? Made ‘em all vegetarians?”

“There are no prisoners out here, Deputy. Our folks enjoy the simple life.”

“Simple life, my ass.” He starts for the house. “Sheriff said to pay as little attention to this shithole as possible. You can bet that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Fair enough.”

He steps inside, letting his eyes adjust. The bodies are where we left them, in their fluids.

“I figure you’ll need to bring in your investigators, Deputy. I’d just ask that you keep it quiet. Last thing we want out here is another round of publicity.”

“Won’t have to worry about that.” He’s bent over the big one. “This is Bobby Knopf. Couldn’t block to save his ass. Fuckin’ meth head.”

The deputy stands and notices JD for the first time. She’s leaning against the wall in the shadows. She’s bandaged and dressed, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Well, well, the little assassin. How’d it feel, sweetheart?”

“Didn’t feel like anything.”

“Is that right?” He steps forward, looking her up and down. “So what’s it take? To get you excited?”

“More than you got, cop.”

He laughs and claps his hands together. “Okay then, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

Deputy Higgins sits on the picnic table, sipping corn whiskey from JD’s still as we throw the first body in. It bounces off the ashen surface and ends up on its side.

“So what happens now? Little green men come take ‘em away?”

“They. . .decompose quickly,” I say. JD throws me a look. As far as I know, she’s the only resident who has never ventured out onto the hole: the only thing in this world she fears.

The deputy makes a dismissive sound. “World’s biggest barbecue pit if you ask me.”

We toss the second body in. The neck snaps when it hits. JD says a prayer under her breath.

“My cousin came out here on a bet,” says the deputy. “Fifteen minutes in the Hole for a hundred bucks. Says all he got was a headache. Think he was bullshittin’?”

JD scoffs. “Fifteen minutes he’d be clawing his skin off.”

“Yeah?” The deputy takes a deep drink of hooch and wipes his lips. “Sounds like a party.”

He spends the next hour getting drunk on hooch and peppering us with questions, attempting to jibe reality with the rumors he’s heard over the years.

We don’t have his answers. If you were here when it happened, you’re ash. Like JD’s parents and younger sister. My wife and son. I came back from a sales trip to a vast gray desert in my backyard. Best I can figure, my family was shopping downtown. But downtown disappeared.

“Tell me, Constable, is it true you live out here scot-free?”

It’s true, I tell him that we fought the County Commission to get our so-called contaminated land off the tax rolls. True we joined together to dig our own wells and install our own woodstoves. True we quit our corporate jobs and decided to live life as it was meant to be lived.

Eventually the deputy loses interest in our story and turns his full attention to JD. His eyes are glassy, speech slurred.

“You ever get out and dance, girl? Eat a big fat steak?”

He moves toward her, teetering. Gets in her face with his cocksure grin. JD holds her ground, arms folded. She’s a foot shorter than the deputy.

“My first girlfriend was a gymnast.” He puts his fingers in her hair. “All kinds of flexible.”

JD knocks his arm away. He wraps a hand around her throat. I step in and tweak the soft meat of his underarm.

“Guess she’s not interested, partner.”

He steps back and draws his service revolver, faster than I would have expected, especially drunk.

“Keep your fuckin’ hands off me.” The barrel is pointed at my face. He cocks the hammer. “Yeah, you like that? That’s what real cops carry.”

“A simple misunderstanding, Deputy.”

He barks. “What, you think you somehow matter? Out here in your fruit loop kingdom?” The gun bobs up and down as he talks. “Let me tell you something, Constable. I could frag you both right now and burn this place to the ground and no one would care. Hell, they’d probably gimme some stripes.”

“We just want to be left alone, Deputy.”

“Oh, I’ll leave you alone.” He looks over at JD and spits at her feet. “Wouldn’t touch that shit with a ten-foot pole. Fuckin’ radioactive cooch.”

He looks back as if expecting a retort. Getting none, he holsters his weapon, unleashes a final tirade against the territory and its inhabitants, and stumbles his way back to the cruiser.

JD cleans blood from the floor as I reinforce the door. Once finished, we dine on fresh vegetables and ice-cold water hand-pumped from the well. JD’s the best gardener in the territory, although no real skill is required to grow next to the Hole. The cucumbers come out big as watermelons, the tomatoes like blood-red volleyballs.

JD raises her water. “Let’s not summon that jackass again.” We laugh and clink our cups together.

We’re sitting next to each other so we can look out on the Hole. In the center of the table is the first-place trophy JD brought back from a gymnastics tournament the day her family disappeared.

“I want to thank you.” She turns to face me, places a hand on my back. It’s been quite a while since I looked upon her as a child.

“You need to quit challenging them, JD. This isn’t a game.”

“Anthe.” She moves her hand to my chest. I stiffen. “Donnie’s dead, Anthe. Almost fifteen years now.”

I move her hand away. “Don’t say his name.” I push my chair away from the table. Stand. Exhale.

“Anthe, stay with me tonight.”

I pause, looking into her brown eyes. There’s nothing I want more. No reason not to, I suppose. Still, I give a slight bow and thank her for dinner on my way out.

“Lock this door behind me.”

Every night I strip down to nothing and run across the Hole. When I first started this routine I’d go a hundred yards and then, frenzied, turn around and just make it back to my yard before vomiting from the riot in my skull. This is the phenomenon that plagued the scientists and developers for the first several years after the event. Hazmat suits couldn’t protect them; their vehicles were rendered useless. Eventually they gave up and left the Hole to us.

I built up tolerance. It took years but finally one night I made it across, sprinting the last stretch of the six-point-four miles half out of my mind. I collapsed on the edge of JD’s wooded lot and went fetal, certain I was going to die. When the violent shaking abated, I heard something rustling in the weeds and suddenly I was chasing down a jackrabbit and catching it in my bare hands and ripping it apart. But this brutal act didn’t satisfy, and into the woods I went for more.

Control came next. I got so I needed only a few minutes to recover before the run back across. In my past life I was thirty pounds overweight with a penchant for double cheeseburgers and dark beer. Climbing a flight of stairs left me winded. The Hole changed all that. Now, at fifty-two, I live strictly off the earth and run five-minute miles back and forth across a barren, vexing landscape that would kill anyone else.

Tonight I run and think of the deputy’s comments. Am I a king? A dictator? I suppose a case could be made. Much of my job involves working with the squatters to ensure a successful transition. Yes, I’ve confiscated cell phones, smashed laptops, hauled off a few cars, but in the end, and almost to a person, they’ve thanked me. Became upstanding residents. Spend enough time along the Hole and you lose your desire for instant messaging and satellite radio.

The three bodies are gone, as I knew they would be. Only the clothes remain. Based on past experience I know the garments will be free of blood, free of the waste discharged upon death, free of any human presence. Still, I will remove them from the Hole and burn them in my fire pit and the memory of JD’s attackers will be no more.

The next day is the start of a long holiday weekend. It’s ninety degrees by noon. I’m repairing the roof to my outhouse when Ernest Kincaid walks up and informs me that some hooligans are doing doughnuts out on the Hole, down by the old sewer plant.

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Look familiar?”

“No, sir.”

I climb down from the outhouse.

“Need some help?”

I shake my head. “I can handle two of them.” We pump hands. “How you doing, Ernest?”

“Never been better. Thank my maker every day.”

Ernest is ninety-nine years old. When the event happened he was in the next state over being diagnosed with stage-four rectal cancer. He came home to die. Fourteen years later he walks around the Hole every day and plays the best horseshoes in the territory.

“We havin’ a party next month?”

“Hell, Anthe, I ain’t much for parties. Drink some hooch, throw some shoes, call it a day.”

“Amen to that.”

By the time I get to the old sewer plant the hooligans’ pickup truck has stalled and they’ve just made it out of the Hole. One is puking blood into the weeds. The other is pulling at his hair and screaming for a higher power to take him.

I wait a good forty minutes until they regain control and step out of my vehicle. They’re both bare-chested, wearing dirty jeans and cowboy boots. One has a bleached-blond goatee, the other a mural of raven-haired women inked on his torso.

“What made you think you could drive out there?”

“The hell are you?” Goatee is pressing his palms to his temples as if to keep his head from splitting.

“I’m the constable of this territory. Name is Anthe.”

“I know about you.” Tattoo has managed to stand. He’s a good bit taller than his partner, thicker through the arms and shoulders. A red vomit trail runs down the mural on his chest. “Where’s your gun and badge, Haas?”

“Guns are overrated.” I motion toward their vehicle. “Listen, let me pull you boys out. Your truck just needs a jump. After that, I would ask you don’t come back.”

“Don’t come back?” Goatee is finally on his feet. He’s removed his hands from his head, though now he looks like he needs to defecate. “Why not?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you, son?”

Tattoo pulls out a butterfly knife and flips it open. “How about knives? Are knives overrated?”

Goatee follows with a switchblade. “Fucker’s not a real cop. He’s one of them toxic sons-a-bitches.”

Could these two be any more predictable? It feels like I’ve been through this scenario a thousand times. These men come lurching out of the Hole full of ire, and I’m left waiting for their true nature to take over. Only to find I’m already dealing with it.

I walk straight at them, pulling the nightsticks from the back of my pants. Tattoo laughs at the sight of the glossy black wood, so I humor him first, knocking the knife away with Stick One and snapping his elbow with Stick Two. His howl seems overdone for a single bone, so I break the other elbow.

Goatee’s blade comes high and fast, grazing my ear. I go low and explode his kneecap with a flick of the wrist. He crumples to the ground and reaches for his damaged knee, and I pop an ankle out of convenience. To his credit, he suffers in relative silence.

Then I get to work, unlocking the motorized winch on the front of my vehicle and walking out the fifty-foot chain. I’ve done this so often I’ve worn out two winches. For some idiotic reason, driving on the Hole has become a rite of passage in this county.

Twenty minutes later their truck is off the Hole and idling roughly. I’ve positioned the hooligans thigh to thigh in the cab. Goatee has suddenly become a lawyer, threatening to sue my ass for everything I’m worth, which is bullshit and we both know it. I’ll give ten-to-one odds this cretin is either on parole, wanted, or both.

“Good luck with that,” I tell him.

He glares. I approach the open window, stick raised.

“Move along now.”

They drive off in fits and starts, profanity emanating from the cab even as they pass out of sight.

The sun is setting orange and purple through my window. As the sweat drains from my hairline I munch a pickled mushroom the size of a softball and watch the colors dance off the surface of the Hole, competing with the growing shadows. I’ve never seen anything so wondrous.

Hours later I’m standing in the same spot, staring into darkness when the grandfather clock chimes twelve. I strip down and slip out into the night. It’s easier to function on the Hole without polyester on the limbs, preservatives in the body, clutter in the mind. Something the scientists never figured out.

They call this place Meteortown, though a meteor this size would have wiped out the hemisphere. Some say the earth turned in on itself. A giant sinkhole. A belch from its fiery core. The opening volley of God’s wrath.

They can keep their theories. The folks along the Hole have no interest in such conjecture. This is our home, not some trivia answer.

Halfway into my run I see headlights flickering straight ahead. A vehicle is moving along the path toward JD’s. There are no neighbors within shouting distance of her property, and they wouldn’t be driving anyway. I pick up the pace.

The dull ache in my head becomes a sharp stab. Anxiety doesn’t mix well with the Hole. Lose focus and the pain gets on top of you in a flash. I’ve got three miles to go and my guts are churning at the thought of JD out there alone.

I grit my teeth and think about the weeks leading up to the event. My son Donnie was an all-state pitcher with dreams of going pro. He and JD had been accepted to the same college where he would play ball and she would join the gymnastics team, both on scholarship. Donnie was talking about engagement rings. I argued they were moving too fast.

It was JD’s father, Paul, who put me at ease.

“These kids are in love, Anthe. And they’re more mature than we ever were.”

Paul Demps and I had been best friends since elementary school. We partied together for spring break, stood up at each other’s weddings, smoked cigars when our children were born. I helped babysit JD as a toddler, for Christ’s sake.

What would Paul say today if he could see me look at his daughter?

The throbbing is a siren in my cranium. My thighs cramp. I begin to retch.

A mile to go.

Deputy Higgins kicks me in the side.

“Are you naked?”

He’s standing at the edge of the Hole. There’s a gun in one hand, a flashlight in the other. The smell of liquor is overpowering.

Shaking, I sit up and wipe dirt from an eye.

“Why are you here?”

“I heard something interesting, Constable. I heard love on the Hole is the best love of all. We’re about to test that theory.”

He turns the light on JD. Her lip is cut, blouse torn.

“Called you on the two-way, Anthe. But I see now you were busy.” She gives me a sly look and I know everything is all right. At least for now.

I stand on wobbly legs.

“Whoa, chief, that’s more than I need to see.”

I hug myself but can’t stop the shakes.

“It’s not too late, Deputy. Go back the way you came. You’ll never hear from us again.”

“You know, for a king you’re not too swift. Nobody’s gonna hear from you again.”

“You’re just like the rest of them, Higgins. Threatened by what you don’t understand.”

He waves the light back and forth. “Blah, blah, blah. Time to—”

Before he can finish the sentence, I close the distance between us and snatch the gun from his hand. As I’ve said, speed is part of it.

“The fuck?”

“Toss her the light.” He does as he’s told, then jabs a finger at me.

“Don’t forget who you’re dealing with. They’ll come for me. They’ll turn this place upside down.”

“And they won’t find you.” I nod toward the Hole. “It’s time to learn respect for the earth, Deputy.”

“You’re out of your fuckin’ mind. I’m not—”

I come forward and bring the gunstock down with a nasty crunch, unhinging his jaw. He doesn’t even have time to defend himself. He’s gagging now, broken teeth falling from his mouth.

“Go on now.”

Without further protest Deputy Higgins turns and sprints onto the Hole, as if he can somehow outrun what is coming. He’s angling hard for a clearing in the woods thirty feet away. Here’s the rub, though: you don’t enter the Hole for the first time, particularly drunk and half-crazed, and stay upright for long. That thirty feet might as well be thirty miles.

JD comes to me and together we watch the deputy fall to the earth and begin to spasm. At one point he makes it to his knees and extends an arm our way, screaming for help. Blood pours from the corners of his eyes. JD shivers and puts her arm around my bare waist. I leave it there.

Andy’s fiction has appeared in the Beat to a Pulp: Round One anthology, Plots with Guns, Hardluck Stories, Twist of Noir, Word Riot, Storyglossia, and elsewhere. He was shortlisted for a Derringer for a story in Thieves Jargon and nominated for a Pushcart by the editors of the now-defunct Lynx Eye. He lives in Michigan.

The King of Meteortown - Andy Henion, 4.6 out of 5 based on 14 ratings