by Amy Cross
Munver still hadn't managed to get his pants up, but he was sobbing now and seemed to be in a state of panic.
Turning back to look at the frozen bodies, Garrett saw that the candle had tipped over and that the flame had been extinguished. A section of wood had been placed as a kind of cover, and a sense of dread and disgust began to rise through Garrett's chest as he finally understood exactly what Munver had been attempting to achieve. Revolted to the point of nausea, Garrett reached out to steady himself against the rear of the cart, and he began to consider exactly what punishment he should mete out. It took only a second or two for him to realize that there was only one real option. This pathetic runt of a man had to be put to death.
Gritting his teeth, he turned to face Munver, but at the last moment he stopped as he saw the damage to the frozen man's hand.
No.
Impossible.
Please, no.
For a few seconds, not daring to believe what he was seeing, Garrett stared at the spot where a finger had been snapped away. Then, ignoring the pain in his gut, he clambered up onto the rear of the cart and took a closer look. When he saw that the gold coin was missing, something in his eyes immediately changed. It was as if he had seen Death itself staring back at him.
Slowly, he turned and saw that Munver was finally on his feet, and that his pants were back up.
“Where is it?” Garrett asked.
“Go to hell!” Munver shouted between sobs. “You can't just grab me like that! You've got no right to be -”
“Where is it?” Garrett screamed, scrambling off the cart and rushing at him, grabbing him by the throat and then swinging him around before slamming him against the cart's side and eliciting a pained squawk from the man's lips. “Where is the coin you took?”
Munver tried to answer, but his throat was being squeezed to tight and all he could manage was a pained splutter.
“Where is it?” Garrett yelled, before stepping back and then punching Munver in the chest, snapping a rib and sending him screaming down onto his knees in the snow. “Give it to me now, before it's too late!”
Clutching his injured chest, Munver stared straight ahead as he tried to overcome the agonizing pain. Before he had a chance to respond, he was hauled back up and pressed back against the cart, and he saw Garrett's furious face leaning toward him.
“You have no idea what you're fooling with!” Garrett said firmly. “Give the coin back to me right now!”
“It's mine now,” Munver spluttered. “It's payment for my hospitality and -”
Garrett snarled and punched him again, this time higher in the chest, then he hauled him away from the cart, spun him around, and punched him so hard in the face that several teeth flew loose as Munver fell down against the snow. Worried that this would not be enough, Garrett listened for a moment to his grovelling cries and then he punched him again, harder this time.
“Now!” Garrett roared, before turning and looking at the two frozen bodies. He watched them for a moment, particularly the man, and then he turned to look down at Munver.
Clutching his mouth as blood splattered onto the snow, Munver was whimpering as he tried and failed to get up.
“Fine,” Garrett snarled, “I'll find it myself.”
Munver screamed as Garrett knelt on his chest, then he continued to scream as he felt his clothes being torn from his body. Garrett was searching for every pocket, for every space where the coin could conceivably be hidden, but finally he realized that there was nowhere left to check so he looked back at Munver's bloodied face. He felt no pity, only pure, unbridled hatred and disgust.
“Where is it?” he roared.
Munver let out a pained sob. Not words. Just an anguished moan.
Garrett punched him hard in the chin, cracking more teeth and sending a spray of blood from his lips.
“Where is it?”
Munver's sobs were more like convulsions now, although after a moment he managed to pull one hand free and use it to plaintively thump against Garrett's chest.
Garrett pushed the hand aside and then punched Munver again, breaking his nose.
“Where's the coin?” he shouted, before turning and looking back toward the cart.
The dead man and woman were still in place, still entwined in their embrace.
Turning back to look at Munver, Garrett saw blood streaming from the man's nose.
“Where is the coin?” he snarled.
He waited, but Munver was sobbing too loudly to make any sense.
“Where is it?” Garrett yelled, and then he punched Munver again, this time on the other side of the face, then again on the chin, then again on the side of his forehead, this time with enough force to crack the eye-socket.
Munver let out a pained wail, like the sound of a dying animal, but Garrett merely stared down at him with an expression of pure hatred. He raised his fist again, ready to land another strike, and then at the last moment he realized that Munver seemed to be trying to speak.
“Drawer,” Munver gasped. “Drawer. Don't hurt me. It's... I swear, it's in the drawer.”
“What drawer?” Garrett shouted.
“Cabin. Drawer. Don't hurt me no more. Please.”
Garrett's fist was still raised, and for a moment he considered ending the miserable wretch's life. A few more blows in the right spots, he figured, would more than do the trick, and he considered it would be a public service to rid the world of such an awful specimen of humanity. Finally, however, he realized that he might yet need his help, so he got to his feet and then he grabbed Munver's shirt, using it to haul the bloodied man up from the snow. He glanced at the bodies and saw that they were still on the back of the cart, and then he turned back to Munver.
“Show me,” he snarled, leaning so close to Munver's face that he could smell the blood. “Now!”
Eleven
The cabin's door sprung open and Munver was immediately sent stumbling through, with such force that he tripped and fell and landed against the table, knocking it aside.
Behind him, Garrett stepped through the doorway, not bothering to close it this time.
“Get the coin,” he said firmly. “Give it to me.”
Clutching his injured side, Munver rolled onto his back. His face was a bloodied mess, with blood still flowing freely from his broken nose and from the damage to his mouth, while the area around his left eye-socket showed signs of bleeding just below the skin. His eyes were open, looking around frantically, and then he let out an anguished squawk as Garrett grabbed him by the throat and pulled him back up.
“Where is the coin?”
Stammering and unable to get a word out, Munver pointed in panic at a set of drawers in the far corner. Garrett looked for a moment, before dropping Munver to the floor and stalking over to check the drawers himself.
Pulling each drawer out in turn, he searched frantically while Munver sobbed on the floor. Garrett was muttering to himself now, alternately cussing and asking the Lord for help, but finally he pulled out one of the drawers and saw the familiar gold coin inside. He picked it up and turned it around, checking that it was the right one, and then he turned to head back to the door.
Just as he reached for the handle, however, he stopped for a moment.
Outside, the wind was still blowing wildly, with enough force to rattle the door in its frame.
Finally, with the coin still clutched in his right hand, Garrett turned and made his way over to the window. Whereas for the past few minutes his face had been filled with an expression of pure anger, now there was a hint of fear as he looked out at the darkness and squinted in an attempt to make out the faint shape of the cart. He waited, watching for any hint of movement, not yet daring to go out there himself.
Behind him, Munver picked up the knife he'd used earlier to open the can of beans, and then he slowly got to his feet.
Still Garrett watched the outline of the cart. He'd seen nothing out of the ordinary, not yet, but he felt a growing sense of fear in hi
s chest as he realized that the coin must have been out of the man's hand for quite some time. At least an hour, maybe longer, and that was more than long enough for...
Munver steadied himself again the side of the chair, while limping across the room with the knife in his hand.
Garrett knew it was time to go back outside, to put the coin into the man's hand. In theory, that would set everything straight again, and then he'd be able to continue with his plan unchanged. He'd feared a moment like this since he'd first begun his work at the end of the war. He was fine with the process so long as he had control, but this time things were unraveling. What would he face if he went out there now? All through that war, he'd prided himself on being the bravest of men, but that had been when he was facing guns and bombs and enemy soldiers. Now, standing at the window and staring out at the distant cart, he realized he was up against something entirely different, something that went against every natural law that he knew.
And then, just as he began to think that he might be brave enough to go out there, he saw something moving on the back of the cart.
“Gah!”
Munver rushed up behind him and drove the knife into the small of his back, pressing him against the window for a moment before twisting the knife and then pulling it out.
Garrett remained standing as Munver stepped away. He'd barely even registered the attack, or the sensation of the blade slicing into his right kidney. His eyes were fixed on the darkness outside, and on the faint, barely perceptible impression of a figure moving about on the cart.
Finally, as blood began to flow from the wound, Garrett took a step back. He was still clutching the recovered coin in his hand, and he knew he had to go outside and face what was on the cart, to put things right, but now the blood-loss was starting to weaken him further. He took another step back, then another, and then he stumbled and fell down into the chair.
“Go to Hell!” Munver sneered, before coming up behind him and driving the knife into the chair's rear, sending the blade clean through until it ran once more into Garrett's back.
Still staring at the window, Garrett opened his mouth and let out a gasp. He could no longer see the cart, of course, but he was certain he'd seen movement just a moment ago, which meant...
He looked down at the coin in the palm of his hand.
Control.
He'd lost control.
He couldn't imagine what would happen next.
Suddenly Munver stabbed the back of the chair again, then again, and this time the tip of the blade burst out through the front of Garrett's chest. Beaten and bloodied, Munver screamed as he continued to attack, and in the space of the next minute he stabbed Garrett thirty times or more in the back, striking with increasing speed as his frenzy built. He only stopped, finally, when his arm spasmed and threatened to give way, at which point he left the knife still in place and took a step back.
Breathlessly, he stared at Garrett's silhouette.
Blood was trickling from Garrett's mouth, but he'd barely noticed his own murder. Instead he was still staring at the window, thinking about what he'd seen on the rear of the cart. And although he felt great sorrow at the thought of never seeing Mary again, and despite the realization that he had ultimately failed in his journey, he allowed himself at least one consoling thought. He would not now have to go out there into the snow and face the consequences of what had happened. He would not have to witness the horror that, until now, he had only read about and heard spoken of. Someone else could fix the problem.
No.
No, he had to keep fighting.
Suddenly filled with panic, he gripped the chair's arms and tried to haul himself up, but all his strength was gone now. He tried again, and again, each time struggling more and more until he let out a faint, frustrated groan. All he could think was that he had to complete this one final journey. After that, he could die a satisfied man, but he couldn't leave this particular task unfinished. Why, anything could happen if the process got out of hand. He gripped the chair tighter and prepared for the final push, for the moment when – despite his pain and fear – he'd force himself up.
And then he felt a hand on his.
He blinked a few times, and finally he saw Mary kneeling before him.
“It's okay,” she said, with tears in her eyes but sounding so calm and soothing, “you can rest now, my darling. Other men can do your work.”
He opened his mouth to tell her that nobody else knew how the process worked, but he couldn't get the words out. He could barely even move his lips.
“Hush now,” Mary continued. “I'll be with you soon enough. Those bodies out there... they'll find their way. You've brought them far enough already. Trust in the world.”
Her smile grew, and then she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, and then she was gone.
In that moment, Garrett knew that he was never going to get out of the chair again. He still gripped the sides, but slowly his hands weakened and he allowed himself to slump back, with the blade still running straight through his chest. He tried to take a deep breath, but found that he could not. He tried to open his mouth so that he could offer one final prayer, but this too was impossible. Looking at the window, he tried to imagine what was happening out there right now on the cart, but his thoughts were dissolving. As he slipped away, his last thought was that perhaps the Lord would show mercy in his final judgment. He thought he could smell Mary's perfume.
I worked only for you, Lord, he thought. It was all for you.
His eyes remained open, even in death.
Twelve
For several minutes, Munver didn't dare move.
With blood still running from his broken nose, he stood completely still and stared at the back of Garrett's head. He half-expected the older, larger man to suddenly rip himself up from the chair, to then turn around and rush forward, to dole out a beating of unprecedented savagery. After all, Munver had tried to stand up to bullies before but he'd never had any luck. This time, pure anger had gotten the better of him and he'd been unable to contain his rage; a kind of red mist had clouded his judgment and he'd struck before he could think things through.
Now, as snow continued to fall outside, he was starting to consider the possibility that he'd taken the ultimate revenge.
He began to smile.
Then the smile grew, becoming a wide grin.
Finally, he began to laugh. Not just laugh: this was more of a cackle, the eruption of a long-suppressed frustration. The realization that he, Stuart Munver, had killed one of the pompous assholes who always sneered at him.
Crouching down, his cackle turned into a giggle but then stopped suddenly. How, he wondered, could he be sure that this wasn't a ruse? He stared at the handle of the knife, still sticking out from the back of the chair. He had no idea how many times he'd stabbed Garrett, but evidently it had been enough times. Then again, he knew better than to assume success. Slowly, then, he began to crawl around to the side of the chair, while taking care to stay a good distance back, and then he looked up and saw Garrett's dead face with glassy eyes staring straight forward and blood on his chin.
“Are you...”
Munver paused.
“Are you dead?” he asked finally.
He waited.
Garrett's face didn't move.
“If you're not dead,” Munver continued, “you have to tell me. Do you hear? It's not right to pretend. If you're not dead, by law you have to admit that. No tricks.”
Again, he waited.
Again, Garrett didn't move.
Munver paused, trying to think of a solution to his quandary, and then he reached out and grabbed the can that had earlier contained beans. He raised the can and took a moment to aim, and then he threw it forward. The can hit Garrett's face and then fell away, but once again Garrett didn't respond at all.
Slowly, cautiously, Munver crawled forward, until he was looking directly up at Garrett's face. Then he sat up, and then – finally – he reached out a
nd gave Garrett's shoulder a shove, before pulling back slightly. He waited, and then he allowed himself to believe that he'd actually manage to kill the man who'd beaten him to a pulp. He smiled again, unable to hold back, and then he got to his feet and stepped behind the chair, before grabbing the knife's handle and giving it a hard, angry twist.
“Enjoying that?” he sneered, leaning down and looking directly into Garrett's face. “I hope you're enjoying Hell, Mr. Garrett, because that's where you're gonna burn forever. You're gonna suffer and scream, and while you're doing that I'm gonna be getting rich. Do you understand? You lost, Mr. Garrett! You lost and I won, and do you know why? It's because you're too stupid!”
He twisted the knife yet again, before pulling it out and then stabbing the dead man several more times in the back.
“That's right,” he continued through gritted teeth, still driving the knife into Garrett. “I bet that doesn't feel too good, does it? I bet it feels humiliating. Well, it's exactly what you deserve. You and all those other assholes!”
Once he'd finished twisting the knife, he stepped around the chair and stared down at Garrett's face for a moment. Then he pulled his fist back and punched the dead man, hitting him several times until suddenly he caught the jaw at an awkward angle. Letting out a gasp of pain, he stepped back and clutched his injured fist, and then he reached down and began to loosen the front of his pants.
“I'll show you,” he murmured, as his rage continued to grow. “No-one disrespects Stuart Munver. I'll show you exactly what I think of you.”
After pulling his manhood out, he took aim for a moment and then he began to pee. At first his aim was awry and he shot straight past the chair, but he adjusted and finally he began to hit Garrett's face. Sneering as he watched the pee splatter against the dead man's cheek, Munver couldn't hold back a faint smile as he realized that he was finally taking his revenge. Really, was Garrett that different to men like Walter Graft? They'd both given Munver dirty looks. This was just practice for when he finally got home and gained his revenge on Graft.
