by Ryan Casey
Did he?
The bed was stripped of all its sheets.
At the corners, there were handcuffs and chains.
Cuffs for the hands, chains for the feet.
A little fluffy teddy bear in the middle of the bed.
Jack’s stomach tensed up. He heard a door click behind him. Spun around.
Rodrigo was standing there. Standing there, without that usual smile of his. Standing there with a look of sheer contempt on his face. A look Jack had never even thought Rodrigo capable of.
He was holding a long, sharp knife.
“Get on the bed and make this easy on yourself,” Rodrigo said. “Don’t make me put you through more pain than I have to.”
THIRTY-SIX
Jack stood still, heart pounding, as Rodrigo pointed the knife at him.
He wanted to say something to Rodrigo. Wanted to say something, as a sickly taste crept into his throat, as the smell of the berry air freshener got to his head, overpowering.
He wanted to ask Rodrigo what the hell he was doing—wanted to tell him to snap out of this—but that look in his eyes. That glazed look. He knew it was too late already.
“Just walk over to the bed. Sit down on it. And you won’t have to suffer. Not one bit—”
“My children,” Jack said. It’s all he could say. All he could think to say.
Rodrigo tutted. His eyes twitched. “Your children. Your children don’t love you. They don’t respect you. Not like they love and respect me. No. That’s bullshit. Bullshit, Jack. Don’t wriggle your way out of this one. Get on the bed.”
Jack’s knees went weak. He tried to reach around for his back pocket—reach for his knife—but his hands had turned to stone. “We’ve… everything we’ve done. Don’t do this now. Think about… about Samantha—”
“Samantha,” Rodrigo said. He laughed. Laughed hysterically. Laughed so much that tears were rolling down his cheeks as he stood at that bedroom door, blocking Jack’s route out. “Oh, Samantha. You still believe she even fucking existed? Still believe I had a wife, after all this? How do you think I got here? And the bodies in the road. What do you really think happened to them?”
Jack felt a stone sink in his stomach. A stone of disappointment more than anger. He should’ve trusted his instincts. He shouldn’t have let this guy anywhere near him, anywhere near his family.
He should’ve left him out in the dark to die.
“I can show you the bodies. They’re in the back room. You’ll be with them soon. Cuddled up to the brutalised little boy. But the truth is, Jack, I’m not even sure how much you want to look after your kids. Not sure how much you trust yourself to be their dad. You seem… I dunno. Rigid around them. Like you’re trying your best to look the part of a dad but not doing a very good job.”
“You don’t tell me how to parent my kids, you sick fuck.”
Rodrigo smiled. Still had that contempt, that detestation, in his eyes. “You keep on slinging the curse words my way. Keep on proving my case. Proving you’re not fit to be a dad.”
“And what are you? You’re fit to be a dad because—because you’ve snaked your way into our lives? You’re a fucking weirdo. A fucking headcase.”
Rodrigo’s smile grew some more. “Don’t make me make this painful for you, Jack. I’d hate for Sam and Jenny to have to leave this site with your screams etched in their memory.”
Jack stepped up to Rodrigo. “Don’t you dare lay a fucking finger on them.”
Rodrigo pushed the blade further forward. Pushed it so it was almost touching Jack’s neck. Jack slipped his hands behind his back. Tried to reach for his jeans pockets, for his own knife. If he could catch Rodrigo off guard, he could stab him. Stab him then get out of here.
He started to move his right hand around his back.
“Maybe you’re… maybe you’re right,” Jack said.
Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed. “Right?”
He felt the knife through the material of his jeans. “About—about being a better dad. About being a better dad than me. Maybe you’re right about that. Just… just don’t hurt them. Promise me you won’t hurt them.”
Jack reached into his pocket. Got a grip on the plastic handle of the knife.
“Hurt them?” Rodrigo said. He moved his knife slightly away. His twisted smile tilted. Eyes twitched and flickered. “‘Course I won’t hurt them. They’re my babies. Why would I want to hurt them?”
Jack gulped. Resisted the urge to head-butt Rodrigo for calling his children his “babies”. He started to pull the knife out. Held his breath. “Thank you. I… I appreciate that. I…”
The knife slipped out of his hand.
He looked down. Saw it hovering in midair, like it was moving in slow motion.
Watched as it tumbled to the floor.
Listened as it made a thump.
Jack’s heart raced. A quietness came over the room. He looked up. Looked at Rodrigo, who stared at the knife, wide-eyed.
He raised his head. Looked into Jack’s eyes, smile wiped off his face.
And then he slashed the knife across Jack’s face.
Jack fell back against the bed. Banged his head on the wood on the side, as Rodrigo ploughed boot after boot after boot into his ribs.
He crouched down beside Jack. Crouched down, covered his mouth as Jack tried to cough. He pressed the knife across Jack’s arm. Pushed the sharp side of the blade right in and sliced, sliced so much that a hot pain seared all down Jack’s arm.
Jack wanted to scream but he couldn’t, not with Rodrigo’s hand in the way.
“You should’ve just got on the bed,” Rodrigo said. Specks of his putrid-smelling saliva peppered Jack’s face. “Should’ve just done what you were told. Never doing what you’re told.”
Another thump into Jack’s side. More colours filling his eyes.
“Not fit to be a dad,” Rodrigo said.
Another thump.
“Not fit to look after your children. My children now. All mine. Safer with me.”
Another thump. A crack in Jack’s ribs this time too, as he struggled for breath, went dizzy.
Jack knew he was close to unconsciousness. He’d been close to unconsciousness before, the many times he’d gone on boozy nights, or that time he’d given boxing a shot. The softness that was coming over his senses. The dulling of his hearing, of his taste, his sight…
And as those senses dulled, he saw his children. Saw them in that caravan, waiting for him to come home.
He saw them walking with Rodrigo.
Holding his hand.
And the worst part of it all was, in his mind, he saw his children happy with Rodrigo.
He saw them all happy.
“Come on,” Rodrigo said. He pulled Jack up. Threw him onto the bed, which made Jack’s arm sting, his aching ribs ache even more. “Didn’t want to hurt you, but just gonna have to now. Gonna have to teach you a lesson. Because people don’t learn if they’re never taught lessons.”
He aligned Jack’s arms and legs with the cuffs at the corners of the bed. Clipped the cuff around his left wrist, tightened it as tight as he could.
He moved over to the opposite one. Started to clip it shut. Jack could see the sword just outside the door. The sword that he knew this man would do countless things with. This man he thought he knew. This man he thought he could trust.
He wanted to say so much to Rodrigo but he couldn’t. He physically couldn’t.
“Better go see on the kids soon,” Rodrigo said, as he struggled with the second handcuff, trying to tighten it properly. “Don’t want them wondering where Daddy is. Not looking forward to telling them about the accident. The accident with the angry people on the road.”
Jack opened his mouth. Opened his mouth to speak. To beg, more than anything.
Instead, he spat a lump of bloody phlegm into Rodrigo’s face.
Rodrigo didn’t seem too disappointed.
He wiped the blood away. Stepped away from the bed, Jack still only att
ached by his left arm.
He reached for the sword. The sword, covered in blood, so shiny, so sharp.
“Time for you to learn a few lessons. Let’s start with manners.”
He stepped over to Jack. Started to lift the sword.
A bang outside.
It made Rodrigo stop. Stop and turn around, sword still elevated.
Another bang. Thumps, like something scratching against the caravan.
And then pattering. Pattering, like footsteps.
Gasping.
“Runners,” Jack mumbled.
Rodrigo lowered the sword. Leaned over the bed. Opened the curtains to look out onto the road.
He didn’t have to look far.
There was a runner—a woman with blood-matted hair—standing right outside the window and looking in.
And on the road outside, dozens more runners stampeded through.
“My—my children,” Jack said. He tugged at the cuff around his wrist. “My… Please. My children.”
Rodrigo didn’t even look at Jack. He stepped away, wide-eyed, bewildered, stepped back to the bedroom door with his sword in hand as the scratching and the gasping continued outside.
“Please!” Jack said. He struggled with the chain. Did all he could to fight through his pain, to fight his way out.
Rodrigo’s eyes met Jack’s for a brief moment as he stepped up to the door. In them, Jack saw the old Rodrigo. The scared Rodrigo. The Rodrigo he thought he knew.
A smash came from the front of the caravan, and Jack knew at that moment that they were both going to die in here.
That his children were going to die.
Alone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jack listened to the footsteps creak across the lounge of Rodrigo’s caravan.
He kept quiet. Kept still, as he lay back on the bed. His arm stung from Rodrigo’s cut. His ribs ached from all the kicks. He tasted blood and vomit.
Rodrigo stood right beside the bedroom door. Stood very still, holding the sword, as the grunts came from the lounge area. His eyes wandered, like he was trying to focus on the footsteps, hear them clearer.
It didn’t matter how clearly they heard them. The runners were inside the caravan.
The runners had compromised the caravan site.
His children were all alone in their caravan.
The footsteps creaked right outside the bedroom door. It sounded like just one of them was in the caravan, even though there were at least a dozen of them outside. Jack could heard them scraping around the other caravans, could hear them gasping and shouting at one another in that animalistic tongue.
He could feel death getting closer and closer with every footstep, with every scratch.
Rodrigo looked at him as the creaking got even closer to the bedroom. Tightened his grip around the sword. Jack lifted his arm—the arm tied down with the cuff. Gestured for Rodrigo to release him, to let him help. Because even after everything Rodrigo had done, they both needed to get out of here, away from the runners.
Get to Sam and Jenny.
Or at least, Jack needed to get away. Rodrigo, well. He’d decide what to do with him along the way.
The footsteps outside the bedroom door stopped. Stopped completely. Total silence.
And then the door jolted open and Rodrigo pushed it back.
The gasping started. Right outside the door. The runner tugged and tugged at it, scratching, getting more and more agitated.
“Let me—let me stab it,” Jack said. “Let me help.”
Rodrigo just kept on pushing the door. Kept the sword beside him. Clearly didn’t want to swing that thing around in close quarters. Not as confident about his abilities as he was when dealing with trapped humans, by the looks of things.
The runner pushed at the door some more. Gasped, shrieked. More footsteps entered the caravan.
“They’re getting in,” Jack said, although speaking was a struggle. He pulled at his cuffed wrist once more. “Do… do something. Don’t just—”
The door collapsed and the runner was on top of Rodrigo.
It was the woman from outside. She scratched at Rodrigo’s face, wrestled him to the floor, as he dropped his sword and reached for his knife.
Another runner hurried in after her. A man. Thinning hair. Carrying a knife. He looked straight at Jack with his reddened eyes, gasped, then came flying at him.
Jack lifted his knees up to his chest. Lifted them up to block the runner, but the runner still landed on him with a huge weight made worse by Jack’s painful ribs, his sliced arm.
He struggled with the runner. Struggled, as it shrieked in his ear. As it drooled all over his face, clutched at his hair and pulled little tufts out.
Jack did all he could to swing around. To push the knife back. Cut his own hand in the process, but he was in enough pain as it was that it didn’t have much of an effect.
He squeezed onto his side, tried his best to breathe properly as the runner swung the knife at him, gripped the side of his head.
And then Jack tumbled off the bed.
Tumbled off the bed, with the runner’s neck stuck between the cuff and the edge of the bed.
The chain of the cuff wrapped around the runner’s neck.
The runner struggled at first. Dropped the knife, struggled, spat out, gasped and growled.
As Jack tightened the chain even more around its neck, watching Rodrigo flip the other runner over and bash her head in with the butt of his sword, the choking runner stopped gasping. The anger dropped.
Jack looked in his eyes and he didn’t see those of a glassy runner.
He saw humanity. Begging humanity.
He saw more humanity in this runner’s eyes than he did in Rodrigo’s.
And then the chain snapped and the anger returned to the runner’s eyes, the struggling started again.
Jack couldn’t believe he was actually free. He was so awestruck that it allowed the runner to mount him again, allowed it to bring its hands over his eyes, start pushing down with intense pressure, so much that colours and shapes sprouted in front of them.
He fumbled around. Fumbled in the darkness for something—something he could hit the runner with. Something he could stop him with.
He felt something sharp and he knew he had it.
He turned the sharp blade around in his hand as his eyes felt close to bursting and he swung it at the runner’s head.
He heard a cry—the biggest, most pained cry this runner had let out so far—and the thumbs loosened on his eyes.
He pushed the runner away as it clutched at its stabbed head. Crouched over it, his vision still distorted. Pulled the runner’s face up so he was looking it in its eyes.
And then he stabbed it in its neck six times.
Jack wiped the knife. Stood up, his ribs filled with pain, his body acting purely on adrenaline.
Rodrigo was gone. And so was his sword.
He ran over to the bedroom door. Saw a runner coming at him through the lounge. Small woman. Getting on a bit.
He kicked her as hard as he could and stabbed her in her eye sockets, blood splashing up over his hands, his face.
Taste of sweat and blood peppered across his lips.
He rushed over to the caravan door. Opened it up, looked outside, not caring whether a runner was coming or not, only caring about getting to his children. Getting to them before Rodrigo did.
The road looked empty. Empty on the stretch from Rodrigo’s caravan to Jack’s anyway.
He saw the pink curtains of his own caravan. They were still. The kids weren’t peeping through.
And then he heard a high-pitched scream.
It came from Jack’s caravan. Made Jack’s chest tighten. It was a girl’s scream. Or maybe not—maybe it was Sam screaming hard.
It was one of his children.
He rushed down the stones. Heard runners coming down the road as warm rain peppered over him. He ran up the stones before his caravan. Hopped up the steps. Turned the handle.
He almost toppled over as the door opened his way.
Rodrigo was coming out of the caravan. He was holding Sam and Jenny’s hands, dragging them along, all covered in blood and sweat, eyes white and bulging.
His jaw shook as he stared at Jack. Footsteps from the runners came down the road, forty metres or so away.
“They’re close,” Rodrigo said. “So you let us go now. Let me take Sam and Jenny to safety. Or are you really so selfish?”
Jack couldn’t find the words. He was filled with pain, but all he felt instead was anger. Anger towards this man. This man he’d trusted. This fuck he’d let into his home.
He heard the distant gasps and the shouts of the next wave of runners heading down the dip in the road.
Sam stepped behind Rodrigo. Tears rolled down Jenny’s cheeks as she held Rodrigo’s hand.
“Let me take them. Let me keep them safe. Let me—”
Jack threw himself into Rodrigo’s stomach. It hurt him, caused him all kinds of pain, but he did it anyway.
He pushed Rodrigo to the floor of the caravan. Heard his kids scream as they too tumbled back.
“Sam, Jenny: shut the door.”
“But—but, Dad—”
“Shut the fucking door and do as you’re told.”
Sam, or Jenny, Jack couldn’t tell right now, closed the door. Locked it. Pulled the curtain shut.
Jack tightened his grip around Rodrigo’s neck. Watched as the froth came out of his mouth, as his smiling lips turned purple.
He moved close to Rodrigo. Looked him right in the eyes, as his children cried, as they reached for his shoulder to try and calm him, try and reassure him.
“You should’ve learned your fucking lesson,” Jack said.
He grabbed his knife.
More cries from his children, who stood just beside them.
“Nobody lays a finger on my fucking children.”
He brought the knife down into Rodrigo’s cheek.
And then he lifted it and brought it down again, once in the left eye, battling with the hard bone, stabbing and slicing and cutting.
And then he moved on to Rodrigo’s neck—stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and listened to Rodrigo choke and splutter blood as his children cried and whimpered.
