Doom Patrol #7 - The Song of Love (Part 7)

The crack of dawn is met with asserted haste as Larry moves hurriedly in and out of the house, bringing supplies into the old camper parked out back. Perhaps in its heyday it was an attractive looking thing, rich lime and gleaming white with polished hubcaps and crystal-clear windows. Now however, stands a different tale. A rusted, faded old box with tyres caked in decades of hardened mud stoops round the back of the manor, out of sight but unfortunately not mind. Its filthy windows, decorated with faded, moth-eaten curtains, give passers by a glimpse into its sad interior – a snapshot of days long since passed when someone may have once passed happy hours in its company. No one knows where it came from, either, because sadly no one cares. It would appear, like the crumbling foundations and dark earth upon which stands the manor, it has been there forever. No one has loved it for years – decades, in fact – and I’m not sure anyone will, giving it far more in common with the residents of the manor than its vehicular brain could ever comprehend.

 

Rita stands watching it, thinking not of its sad history, but instead of a warm drink and how much she'd like Larry to hurry up. She folds her arms and impatiently taps her foot.

 

Rita: I just want you to know I whole-heartedly disagree with this.

 

Larry pops his head out the door.

 

Larry: What?

 

Rita: I said: I just want you to know I whole-heartedly disagree with this.

 

Larry: You mean you don’t want to save the Chief?

 

Rita: Of course I do. I’m just sure there’s a far more sensible way we could do this, one that doesn’t involve driving to Colombia in a half dead camper van. Does that thing even work?

 

Larry: Sure it does. Chief said it was here when he bought the place.

 

Rita: Yes, and that’s all very good, but it doesn’t answer my question. Will it work?

 

Larry hops into the camper, shuffles into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. It moans sadly as a guttural splutter erupts from the exhaust with a cloud of smoke and dust. After a few seconds it subsides and the engine calms. Larry throws her a thumbs up through the murky windscreen.

 

Rita: Brilliant…

 

Larry re-emerges and finishes unloading their gear into the camper as Cliff marches outside, Eric in tow. He hasn’t changed out of his snot-stained sweater, not that he would have had a chance to anyway, what with being kept in a cupboard all night. He wheezes as Cliff walks him through the dispersing clouds of dust and smoke.

 

Cliff: Holy shit, that thing works?

 

Larry: Sure does.

 

Rita: Fantastic, isn’t it?

 

Cliff, seemingly the only one appreciative of its once held beauty, gives the thing a once over.

 

Cliff: Can I drive?

 

Larry: Uh… well, I mean, can you?

 

Cliff slumps his shoulders.

 

Cliff: Oh, yeah.

 

Larry: Sorry big guy.

 

Cliff: I’ve had a load a’ practice, though.

 

Rita: And what was it you drove again? Oh yes, racing cars. Completely identical in every way.

 

Larry, attempting to quash another sparring contest before it can commence, turns to Eric.

 

Larry: Eric, I’ll have you up front with me. You say you know the route?

 

Morden: About eighty-ninety percent.

 

Rita sighs.

 

Larry: Okay, we can work with that. Great.

 

He turns to the others.

 

Larry: Now is there anything else we’ll need? I’ve got supplies, as many maps as I could find, compasses, coats, cash should we need it-

 

Rita: Yes yes, we understand, you’ve got everything. Now can we hurry up before I come to my senses and go back to bed?

 

Larry: Uh, yeah of course.

 

And with that, he disappears into the camper, leaving Cliff and Rita alone with Eric. They try the best they can not to look at each other as Eric stands between them.

 

Morden: So, umm… either of you been to Colombia before?

 

Cliff/Rita: No.

 

Morden: Oh.

 

None of them move.

 

Morden: It’s nice, yeah it’s nice. Real nice. Sunny.

 

Rita unfolds her arms and climbs into the camper after Larry. Eric smiles at Cliff, who responds by placing a heavy metal hand on his shoulder.

 

Cliff: C’mon asshole.

 

They follow Rita inside, the tired frame groaning under the weight of so many people, and swing the battered door shut behind them.

 

 

====================-Somewhere-====================

 

 

Beard Hunter wipes a hairless arm across his forehead, taking out the spots of perspiration that have appeared there in the past hour or so. He’s barely stopped driving since his run in with those weirdoes in Vermont. Not that they made a difference though, he got what he came for. His attention is suddenly drawn to how badly his feet are aching. It doesn’t matter, he assures himself. This will all be worth it in the end.

 

He checks the rear-view mirror to see if the old man is still there. He is, thankfully, still out like a light. He’d had to stop once to smother that grizzled face with another chloroform-soaked rag, but other than that he’d been no trouble. Not nearly as tenacious as his employers had led him to believe. He gazes longingly at him, before his eyes settle on his beard – thick, red and wiry. He’d had red ones before, of course he had (they didn’t call him the Beard Hunter for nothing, you know) but never one as thick and sensuous as this. He imagines himself touching it, allowing its curls to coil delicately around his manly fingers as he lifts a razor, sniffs it, and in one fell swoop slices it from the old man’s terrified face. ‘Stop, please... I’ll do anything!’ But it’s too late. He grasps the beard in his hands and brings it to his face, basking in its musky aroma, salivating as his tongue pokes out of his thick lips and gives it a playful lick. He listens to the old man weep as the life leaves his bloody face, shuts his eyes and takes a big, hairy bite. Yes, the red ones are indeed the best. Few will ever know the wondrous taste of a full-grown beard, he considers. He would almost pity them, if he wasn’t hopelessly aroused. All the more for him, anyway. Who needs the touch of a woman when you have a beard? If only you could see me now, mother. If only you could see me now.

 

He opens his eyes, hands fixed on the steering wheel. He frowns for a moment, confused at what he’s seeing, when suddenly the surrounding countryside melts away and swirls into a dark vortex. The bright afternoon sky turns a dazzling black, as if switched off by some celestial being, and out of the swirling vortex grows a tree. It’s small, not far off being just a branch, and completely leafless. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t stop staring at it. And as he stares, the lone tree is joined by others, at first mere sticks protruding out of the darkness, twisting and snapping as they expand into full growth. He watches as they appear to sprout what seems to be leaves – thick, bushy clumps – but then he realises as he continues to stare that they are not leaves, but beards. Beards of all shapes, sizes and colours sprout out from the branches: black ones, white ones, red ones, blonde ones, brown ones, thick beards, small beards, beards that drag along the ground, beards that are combed and neatly trimmed. Chinstraps and goatees and soul patches. Mutton chops and balbos and French forks…

 

All the hair he could ever dream of, growing and growing before his eyes. His mouth drops open and he whines, oh so wishing they could hear him. But they do, for no sooner has he called to them, they being to sing; to call out to him in an immaculate chorus. ‘They don’t deserve us.’ The voices begin to cry out. ‘Take us, Ernest, take us!’ Tears well up in his eyes, but suddenly something is wrong. The trees begin to lose their hairs, an ice cold pain stabbing into his heart for every hair that drops. The voices stretch in pitch, becoming a ghastly screech. The fallen hairs, now piled high amongst the dying trees, swirl into a dark twister of hair in the growing darkness, forming the shape of a woman…

 

‘Such a pathetic boy.’

 

He goes to shout, but all that comes out is a meek cry. ‘Mother…’

 

‘A pathetic, good for nothing, sorry excuse of a man…’

 

Tears drip down his face.

 

‘Thank goodness your father isn’t here to see you…’

 

He looks down at himself, naked; featureless. His words freeze in his throat and sting his insides. The hairy likeness of the woman glides towards the truck, now lost in the horrendous darkness that once seemed dazzling, and opens its mouth wider than anything should be able to go. He goes to scream, but before he can the sound of a loud, violent car horn blares out of the woman’s mouth...

 

Suddenly he’s snapped back to reality – just in time to come to his senses and swerve the truck back onto the right side of the road, narrowly avoiding crashing head-on with an oncoming car. He grips the wheel for a moment, heart racing and turns his attention to the road, now thankfully back to normal. He blinks, licking his lips nervously as he looks around for the woman, or the trees, but they’ve all disappeared. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he sees the old man still out cold. He wipes his arm across his forehead once more, and considers perhaps stopping for a rest. The thought lingers as he tries to ignore it and continues on down the road.

 

Done