Page 82 of Penn

“Did showing smokers the black lungs they’d end up with stop them from smoking?” Jethro asks. “Besides, you’re asking addicts to care about anything more than their next fix. Not likely to happen.”

I don’t have an issue with people doing what they want to their bodies, but this type of shit doesn’t make sense to me. Getting high and fucking your brains out is fun. Have at it. But this shit literally kills you. Rots in your veins, and I honestly can’t figure out the business plan for it. How much money can you really make killing off your clientele?

“No guards,” Pacino says, looking through his binoculars. “Didn’t Patterson say there’s more at night?”

“Maybe they’re just that convinced no one would come out here this time of night,” Capone offers.

Turning around, I scan the darkness around us. “Unless they’re not directly near the snake pit. They could be watching us from a distance.”

“Doubt it. They would’ve stopped us long before we got close enough to see what’s going on,” Zep says. “We’d be dead.”

That’s a comforting thought. There are no guards because we haven’t been blown to pieces. Really nice considering he has a new baby at home, and I have a baby about to come any week now.

“What’s that over there?” Kannon asks, pointing toward the left of the tent.

Lifting our binoculars, we all search for what he points to in the darkness. The night vision allows us almost perfect sight, and I lean backward when I see it. “Bodies.”

“Looks like there was an accident,” Pacino says.

“Didn’t he say there were explosions?” Capone asks. “Bet it was from one of those.”

“Where are the others?” Zep asks.

Jethro shakes his head. “Blown to pieces. No one really thinks about how dangerous these chemicals are. Especially the gas.”

My stomach churns. Butch just moved the snake pit a hundred yards away to start up production again. He didn’t even bother to bury his workers.

“We always knew he didn’t care about anyone but himself, but this is cold. Even for him,” Kannon says. “It makes my skin crawl.”

“Yeah? Put yourself in my shoes,” Zep says. “The mastermind running all this has his DNA flowing through my veins. So fucking glad I grew up with Mom and Johnny, not that bastard.”

Laughing, Rooster punches his arm. “But you and Wylie could have been best friends. Sharing bunk beds. The whole works.”

“Suggest that again, and I’ll bury you up to your chin, set up a fence around you, and unleash a wild turkey on you.”

“Dick,” Rooster mutters. “I was just kidding.”

Everyone knows Zep and Wylie hate each other with a passion, and it’s not really something to joke about with Zep. Not since he learned Butch raped Jolene, and that’s how Zep came to be.

It’s even harder for him knowing that Johnny didn’t immediately take out Butch when he learned it wasn’t a one-night stand. Whether he wants to admit it or not, Zep struggles with holding back on getting revenge. He felt the same way when he wanted Butch’s head for attacking Misty but got voted down.

“Put the masks on,” Jethro orders. “If any of that shit gets into your lungs when this place goes up, you’ll be dead before we make it to the highway.”

Again, why the hell would anyone voluntarily make this shit? No one down there can be comfortable. Besides making this crap with chemicals that literally burn their skin, they’re making it in the fucking desert. You don’t really get much hotter than that.

I slip on the mask, the tight seal pinching my skin, and I hate it immediately. The filtered air tastes dry and sterile. Like breathing in hospital air. Through the glass visor, the snake pit looks distorted as though looking through a funhouse mirror.

It’s actually really trippy, and I’m not a fan.

But I can’t help but laugh when we all look at each other and sound like Darth Vader. We’re wearing the right color, at least.

Pacino grabs the large grenade launcher and twists the pieces together. The barrel, receiver, and stock quickly come together, and I can’t believe we were able to get this from the Drifters as quickly as we did.

And without any questions asked.

“Take position,” Pacino says, his voice muffled but still perfectly clear.

Moving behind the ATV, I grab the shield from the back rack and crouch behind it. It won’t protect against much, but the less of this godforsaken place that touches us, the better.