'Til Death Do Us Part

EpisodeTwo:Hounddog

She pulls the rust bucket into the parking lot of a shitty little gas station not far from the city; the guy who runs it is an old friend, and in his line of work he knows better than to ask too many questions.

It’s almost dark again by the time she manages to unglue her bloody and aching fingers from the steering wheel; luckily, she’s still got a brick of weed under the passenger seat—she’ll need something to pay the ferryman. It feels almost wrong to see someone alive after the events of the past twenty-four hours; she feels like a ghost in the land of the living as she drifts toward the door to the basement.

She kicks the heavy metal door a couple of times, keeping her arms tucked tightly into her chest—equal parts for security and to hide the blood from any curious passersby, though mercifully, the station doesn’t seem to be doing good business tonight.

“Yeah, yeah,” the voice on the other side of the doors groans, and Glory can hear the clunking of old locks. “Hold your damn horses.”

Hounddog is an old friend; he was the band’s roadie for a little while before all the fighting drove him off, but Glory has never been more overjoyed to hear his voice than she is now.

When she sees him, greyer in the hair since the last time she saw him and still caked in that familiar layer of grime, she can’t bring herself to speak. Instead, all she does is tremble like a beaten dog.

“s**t, Glory girl,” he gasps, moving quickly to shuttle her into the basement, his eyes lingering on the blood caking her arms. “What the hell happened to you?”

The sour stench of piss and s*x assaults her nose when she climbs down the stairs, and Hounddog locks the door behind them; but she can’t recall a time she felt safer in her life.

“Need an ID,” she forces out, her voice hoarse from screaming and disuse.

“You need to wash your damn hands before we do anything,” he scolds her, before sighing softly and guiding her to an old basin sink. “Not used to seeing you so rattled.” It’s the closest thing to an apology she’s ever heard Hounddog offer, and it makes her sick to her stomach.

She’s never been one to tolerate pity.

“Just need an ID and I’ll hit the bricks,” she insists, a little more forcefully this time. “I won’t be in your hair long.”

He huffs, forcing her arms under the hot water, only to have her jerk her arms back with a squeal that resembles a feral cat. She can’t get the feeling of Sue’s blood running over her hands out of her head.

“Damn it, girl!” He shouts, gesturing sternly toward the sink. “Anyone comes busting in here, they’re gonna have questions if they see you in here shaking and covered in blood.” He runs his hands through his hair, and Glory winces when she notices he’d gotten some of Sue’s blood on him too. “I don’t need anyone asking questions.”

She hates herself for the sob that wracks her throat; she’s seen blood before—she’s bled and made people bleed—but something in her died in that junkyard, and she’s terrified it’s never coming back.

“Shh, shh,” Hounddog coos, guiding Glory back to the sink, and she lets him envelope her against his grimy body as he washes the blood off for her. “I’ve got you, girl.”

No pride left in her body, she lets the snot and the tears flow freely as the blood runs down the drain and she can see her own skin again.

Hounddog lets out a sigh of relief. “Ain’t your blood, is it?”

All she does is shake her head.

She’s injured too, but it’s mostly scrapes and bruises, and she thinks a rib or two might be broken. He doesn’t need to know that though; she came here for a reason, and she doesn’t need the old man playing nursemaid.

Everything comes at a price with him anyway.

“Take it I’m not gonna be seeing you again once you walk out with your new ID, am I?” He looks her over, the gravity of the situation settling in on him. “Here, clean your face up.” He pulls off his nasty tank top, and if Glory had any shame left in her she might have protested, but instead she wipes her face and blows her nose before tossing the old rag of a thing back to him.

It almost feels wrong, the way her head is starting to get clearer—it almost feels like betrayal to go on living while the others lie broken and dead, but she supposes Gloria Lauwery died there too.

“No,” she admits, her voice still ragged, but much more her. “Gotta get the hell out of here before they come looking for me.”

His brow furrows with a genuine concern that really doesn’t suit him. “Who, the band?”

“Thought you didn’t ask questions?” She snaps back at him. “Or did that change since I’ve been gone?”

“It changed when you did,” he huffs. “But since you seem to be getting back to normal, might as well ask how the hell you plan on paying me for my services.” He slaps his hand down on the dingy little desk he uses to put the finishing touches on his fakes.

“Don’t go getting your d**k out or anything,” she sneers, pulling the weed out of her vest and tossing it at him. “Gonna have to settle for grass.”

“Ya know, my work’s been pretty popular lately.” He sniffs at the brick, before taking a little crumble off of it and crushing it between his teeth, seemingly satisfied. “If I didn’t have such a soft spot for you I’d charge double.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Hound.” A grumble builds in her chest, watching him through tired eyes. “Are you going to help me out here, or not?”

“Don’t get your f*****g panties in a twist.” He walks into his little makeshift office, leaving the door open so she can still hear him, though she knows better than to follow. “Just sayin’, usually a few weeks go by between serious cases; usually my clients are just dumb kids that want to buy booze.”

She rolls her eyes. “And you enable them.”

“Don’t give me that tone like you don’t remember the first time you walked in here,” he throws back at her.

“Don’t remind me,” she hisses, though she’s too exhausted for any real malice. “I could have been an upstanding citizen if you had just told me no.”

“Sure, and I could’a been the fuckin’ Pope.” He laughs, shooting her a truly amused look over his shoulder. “You weren’t exactly a church mouse when I met you.”

“Fair point.”

Shit hit the fan for her well before meeting Hounddog, that’s true. Maybe she was just a lost cause from the start; maybe things were always going to end up this way.

It’s not long before he steps out of the office, presenting her with her new identity.

“Nice to meet you, Judith.” His self-satisfied grin falls though when he gets a better look at her. He nods toward a yellowed old mattress laying on the floor in the corner of the room. “You sure you don’t want to get some sleep before you head off to Christ knows where?”

“Tempting,” she jokes, the corner of her mouth crooking up into what she hopes resembles a grin. “But I really do need to hit bricks.”

She turns to head toward the door, but he grabs her by the arm. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I’ll try.” She nods, and he follows her to the door.

The night air rushes to greet her when she opens the door, and she takes a cool breath in; the first of her new life, heralded by the drumming of locks clicking shut behind her.

She waits until she’s back in the van to take a good look at her ID.

Judith Carpenter, June 30th, 1945.