Free Rot by Gary Brandner Page A

siding, a sawmill. Marianne touched his arm and pointed to a wooden sign illuminated by a single light bulb:
    ZENITH MOBILE HOME PARK
    “That’s it.”
    Kyle steered in through the ungated iron fence and down a roadway that passed between rows of large mobile homes. The flickering glow of television sets could be seen behind many of the windows. A few people, mostly elderly, were outside in lawn chairs talking quietly or just sitting in the warm June night.
    Marianne gestured him on toward the back of the lot. As they continued the mobile homes grew progressively smaller, the yards shabbier, until they came to the rear fence where the old beatup travel trailers were parked.
    Marianne pointed at a rusting rectangular trailer with flaking yellow paint and faded awnings over the windows.
    “That one.”
    A familiar yellow Custom Kawasaki stood off to the side under an awning.
    Kyle said, “Isn’t that the Gerstner kid’s bike?”
    “That’s right. Fabian lives here with his brother Jesse. If we’re lucky they’ll both be home.”
    Kyle turned in the seat to face her. “Marianne, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    Without answering she reached down between the seats and drew out a heavy, long-bladed screwdriver.
    “What’s that for?”
    “You don’t want to know.”
    She got out of the car and pulled off the denim jacket. Underneath she had a tight yellow tank top. She shoved the screwdriver, blade-first, down the back of her jeans. Kyle started to get out.
    “I think you better wait here.” The words were spoken softly, but with unmistakable menace.
    He wanted to get out of the car, do something, stop this girl from whatever it was she had in mind. He wanted to, he knew he should … but he didn’t do anything. Instead, he leaned back in the seat, wrapped his arms around himself, and tried not to think. With a morbid fascination, he watched Marianne walk jerkily up the short path to the door of the trailer.
    • • •
    Fabian Gerstner, wearing only a pair of white jockey shorts, lay on one of the two narrow beds that folded up flush with the wall when not in use. In practice, the beds were hardly ever folded up. Fabian and his brother Jesse were not big on housekeeping.
    Fabian tipped a can of Blatz and took a long swallow, not taking his eyes from the 15-inch television screen where Charles Bronson was stalking the bad guys in an old movie. He paid no attention to the
chunk
of a car door outside. It would not be Jesse coming home. Jesse was at the Forty-One Road House hustling what he could at the pool table and would not be back before midnight. Nobody else would be coming to their trailer.
    Wham!
Bronson gut shot one of the bad guys with a pistol the size of an artillery piece. Blood spurted from the bad guy’s belly and the guy flew backward through a plate glass window.
    “All
right
!” Fabian cheered, grabbing another swallow of beer.
    Fump, fump, fump
. Somebody was knocking at the loose aluminum trailer door.
    “Shit,” he muttered. Just when the movie was getting to the good part.
    He got up and made his way between the beds, carrying the beer can. The first thing that hit him when he opened the door was the smell. It was heavy and sweet, but under that … something like old garbage.
    Then he recognized the girl who was standing there. Marianne For Chrissake Avery. She wore a skimpy tank top that let her nipples show through, and a pair of skintight jeans. In the glow from the television set her face had a peculiar look. Fabian stood trying to figure exactly what was wrong.
    “Hi,” she said. “Can I come in?”
    He looked over her shoulder. A red Mustang was parked out on the roadway. He could not be sure, but it looked like somebody was sitting in it. “What do you want?”
    “Hey, don’t get spooked. I didn’t report you guys or anything. You didn’t think I would, did you?”
    His eyes got sly. “Report us for what?”
    “Is Jesse here?”
    “No. Just me.”
    “Then I