Survive

by David Haynes

  Survive

  by

  David Haynes

  Copyright © David Haynes 2017. All Rights Reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced without written consent from the author

  Edited by

  Storywork Editing Services

  Cover artwork by

  The Cover Collection

  To find out more about David Haynes and his books visit his website

  David Haynes Horror Writer

  or follow him on twitter

  @Davidhaynes71

  and Facebook

  For Sarah and George

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities with names, places, business or organizations is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  1

  Two of his teeth flew across the yard. They skidded through the dirt, landing in a pile of dog shit that had not yet baked hard in the afternoon sun. He spat blood into the dust, a shrill whine turning his brain to mush.

  “You want to sleep with another guy’s wife, you better make sure that guy isn’t me.” Melladay punched him again, catching him just above the eye. He felt the skin unzip across his eyebrow, spilling warm blood down his cheek.

  A man he’d never seen before squawked behind Melladay, laughing like a hyena. He was going to kill that guy first. As soon as he got off the ground, he was going to end him.

  Melladay turned around, taking a few steps toward hyena-boy before spinning back. He pulled the Glock from his waistband. He had to suck in his gut to give the gun room to clear his belt.

  “See this?” Melladay held the Glock in his hand, pointing it into the sky. “I took this from an off-duty cop in New York.” He stepped forward, his body blocking out the sun. “I took it from his hand as he bled to death in some rat-infested alley. I liked to use my knife back then. Nice and quiet.”

  He licked his lips. “The question is, what am I going to take from you when I kill you? What have you got to offer, huh?”

  He’d heard the Glock story before, maybe ten times. Was it true? Possibly, but Melladay had a penchant for exaggeration. Especially, although not exclusively, where his history of violence was concerned.

  They were in Melladay’s back yard. The guy liked steak. He had five gas barbecues lined up against the wall, all of them wide enough to cook a cow. Smoke drifted out of three of them and swirled into the fresh, cut-grass air of Sunday afternoon suburbia.

  “Hey, Mule, check that goddamn steak, would you? If it burns I’m not going to be happy.”

  Hyena-boy jumped, almost running across the packed dirt. His trainers were a dazzling white flash.

  “Maybe I should just shoot you and be done with it.” Melladay leveled the gun at him. He closed one eye as if he were taking a particularly difficult shot. He was less than two feet away. “Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you? Just couldn’t do it, not even once.”

  Melladay’s wife, a girl twenty years his junior, was a crackhead whore. She liked getting it on with Melladay’s gang, his boys as he liked to call them. Hyena-boy hadn’t been around long enough to get an invite to that party, but he would, sooner or later.

  The only reason Melladay hadn’t lined up all of the guys who’d screwed his wife was because it would render his gang a crew of one. He was to be the sacrificial lamb this time.

  Last year, Monk wound up in the hospital with his skull in little bits. Melladay used a hammer to straighten him out. He knew that because he’d been standing right where hyena-boy was right now. He’d even had his own hammer.

  But the wheels turn, they always do, and now he was here, lying in a yard full of dog shit, eating dirt. Sweat ran into the cut above his eyebrow. It hurt worse than the kick or the punch. He touched the place where his two teeth had been. It was smooth. At least they’d come out clean. No need for pliers.

  Melladay crouched beside him, gun pointing into his face. “Truth of the matter, I liked you. You are a vicious son of a bitch and it gave me a kick watching you work. Doing this doesn’t make me happy. That’s why you get the bullet and not the hammer.” Melladay racked the Glock’s slide.

  He wasn’t going to get shot. He wasn’t going to allow it and he wasn’t going to die, not here, not now, and certainly not by the hands of some grubby Al Capone wannabe. He would survive, he always did.

  He spat in the dust, watched the blood seep into the dirt. “Melladay? I need to tell you something,” he whispered.

  “What? What is it, asshole?”

  “The next time I fuck your wife, I’m going to take her up the ass. Just like the rest of the boys do. Just like he wants to do.” He pointed at hyena-boy who was turning over a juicy steak on the grill.

  Melladay’s eyes widened, glancing over his shoulder toward hyena-boy. It was less than a second but it was enough time for a handful of dog shit and dust to travel the short distance into his eyes. Melladay fell back and fired the gun. The shot went high, his rotund body losing its battle with gravity, sending him onto his back. He fired again, this time blindly as he tried to knuckle the dust out of his eyes.

  This was his chance. He had to get the gun before hyena-boy came running over. He fell on Melladay, bending the gun-hand back against itself. Blood ran from his cut, landing on Melladay’s face and seeping into the dirt.

  He cranked an elbow under the fat man’s chin and then brought his knee up between his legs. Still Melladay tried to bring the gun around. He was strong, his will to survive was almost as fierce as his own. He hit him again, pushing a thumb into his eye socket. There was a wet pop in the eye but still the gun moved around in an arc, coming toward him slowly, surely.

  Hyena-boy, obviously as dumb as he looked, took a few seconds to register the situation but was now running across the dirt. Clouds of dust blew up from his super-white sneakers like a superhero. A weedy, strung-out Flash in faded denim.

  Melladay was strong. Even lying on his back with a face full of dirt and shit, the fat fuck was too strong. He was losing. Hyena-boy was almost on him when he bit down on Melladay’s wrist. He felt a strange sensation in his mouth. It was spongier than he’d anticipated until something went ping. Melladay’s screams were so high all the dogs in the neighborhood barked in response.

  “Let go! Let go! Let go!” he wailed.

  But he didn’t let go, not until the strength had gone out of Melladay’s arm, until they were both bathed in blood. Then he twisted the fat man’s hairy arm and fired twice into hyena-boy’s stupid face. The kid went down in a spattering explosion of red and gray brain matter. He twisted the gun from Melladay’s grip.

  “You bit my arm! You bit my arm you motherfucker!” Melladay was squirming on the dirt, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Something white and pure pushed through the red, butchered mess of his wrist.

  He climbed off and spat sinew into the dirt. “Get up,” he said.

  “Don’t do this,” Melladay said. “You kill me and...”

  “Just get up!” He pointed the gun at Melladay’s face.

  The fat man rolled onto his side. Droplets of sweat mixed with blood, gave his blotchy skin a pink sheen in the sunlight.


  “The house, get in the house.” He pushed the gun into Melladay’s back and walked toward the row of barbecues. He was going to shoot Melladay inside. The two shots fired already would bring cops to the neighborhood soon enough. He didn’t want them coming any faster.

  “You need money? I’ve got money in the house. Take it and get out of here.” Melladay’s smashed nose made him sound like he was underwater.

  “Just move,” he said, giving him a shove.

  He was too close, a mistake. The gun touched Melladay’s sweaty shirt and he turned with balletic agility, grabbing the gun with his good hand. His bared teeth were covered in blood, turning him into a snarling bear.

  They wrestled for a few moments, both men striving to keep hold of the one thing that was keeping them alive. Melladay’s heavier frame gave him the edge and he pushed him into one of the barbecues. The heat was scorching and he could feel the fabric of his cheap t-shirt burning. He could smell it too.

  He twisted his body, turning Melladay toward the barbecue, slamming the heel of his free hand into his broken nose. Melladay squealed and instinctively pulled away, straight onto the hot grill. He yelped and tried to lift himself but he was too slow, too heavy.

  He pushed Melladay down using as much of his bodyweight as he could to keep him pinned. The smell of burning hair scorched the air. A fork with extra long tines sat at the edge of the grill, away from the direct heat. He reached for it and slowly, inexorably pushed it toward Melladay’s eye. The fat man’s hair was truly alight now; the flames licked at the oily sweat on his neck, burning his flesh, making it bubble.

  He gave one last grunt before the fork slid into his eye socket. He didn’t stop pushing until Melladay’s head was skewered to the grill like a kebab.

  He stepped back. A warm breeze carried with it the aroma of burning meat. Whether that was Melladay or the ruined rib-eye, it was impossible to tell, but it made his mouth water.

  He looked at his reflection in the window, exposing the gap in his teeth and the bare gums. He would have to leave this place now. Leave the city and the state. Get as far away as possible. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to move away at short notice. Every year or so, something would go wrong, some plan or other would fail and he’d end up with a sackload of debt, running for the hills. He’d got himself in too deep this time and things hadn’t quite gone the way he wanted. Melladay had some pretty serious friends and they wouldn’t take kindly to this.

  He looked past his reflection to the naked form of Melladay’s wife. Whether she’d seen what happened or not, she made no sign. She was wasted on meth, or maybe even heroin this time judging by her vacant expression.

  He pulled the fork from Melladay’s burning face and stabbed one of the blackened steaks. He took a bite and chewed. He’d told Melladay what he would do next time he screwed her. He didn’t lie about things like that.

  He licked his lips and smiled. He was a survivor and hadn’t yet come across anything he wouldn’t do to stay alive. He doubted he ever would. That was the difference. That was what made him special.

  2

  Tanana-Yukon Basin

  Alaskan Interior

  Jonesy cut the tenderloin from beneath the spine and dropped it into the cotton sack. The fabric turned a beautiful marbled pink.

  “That the last of it?” Lisa asked.

  He nodded. He would butcher it later when they were back at the cabin, when the wind chill wasn’t chewing through the skin on his bloody fingers. Caribou blood only offered protection while it was warm and the animal had been dead for more than an hour while he field-dressed it.

  Jonesy tied the sack and dropped it beside the others on the sled.

  Lad, their Alaskan Malamute, got to his feet and stretched. He glanced at the meat and yawned as if the sight of red meat was an everyday occurrence. It wasn’t. Taller than their cousin, the husky, Malamutes had been bred solely for pulling heavy objects over long distances. Lad might not be as fast as an Alaskan Husky but his stamina was far greater. He would pull the sled, whatever the load, all day if he was asked to. His dense gray coat sparkled silver with ice. He looked regal.

  “You want some, you’ll have to work for it,” Lisa said, fastening the harness around the dog. She attached a second harness around herself. “And no squirrels,” she added. “There will be no squirrels.”

  She turned around. “I’ll take the first leg,” she said, passing Jonesy the Winchester.

  “That’s right, leave me the mountain.” He slung the rifle over his shoulder, looking behind. The lone grizzly had kept his distance, but even from a mile away he looked big. He’d watched them for a few minutes, then lumbered off into the forest. The earth seemed to shake as he dropped out of view.

  It was two hours back to the cabin but with nearly two hundred pounds of caribou meat to drag, it would be closer to three. Last week, a failed hunt without a carcass to bring home meant the hike took forever. Today, the thought of fresh tenderloin would make every step worthwhile.

  “Lad, let’s go!” Lisa shouted.

  The dog pulled and the sled moved as if it were loaded with a single rabbit, not several weeks of food. Lad would have pulled the sled all day and all night if they asked him to, but helping him was a habit they took on when he was a puppy, when they were training him, and it stuck.

  Snow whirled slowly through the air like feathers caught on a breeze. A couple of weeks, three at the most, and hunting caribou or any other game would be impossible. At least for them.

  The cache was well stocked; they had been drying, curing and storing the meat and fish since the fall. And this year, their experimental vegetable patch had finally yielded more than just shriveled potatoes. This winter they were prepared.

  They slid into a paper birch forest, their snowshoes gliding like skis across the shallow snow. The trees formed perfect, neat avenues for them to follow. In the summer, the canopy allowed dappled sunlight to trickle through to the forest floor like a scene from a fairy tale. In the winter, their scarred trunks rose like the detached, hairless limbs of grotesque skeletons. It was nightmarish.

  Lisa said nothing but pointed to a set of tracks that crossed their path at a right angle. Wolf tracks. Where there was one, there would be more. Jonesy knew the pack, all twelve of them, and they knew him. He scanned the area and Lad lifted his nose, finding their scent. The dog grumbled but that was all. The smell of the carcass, the guts they had left behind, would make the wolves curious. It would make them brave. They stayed away from the humans for the most part but that respect had its limits, particularly when food was scarce.

  They pushed through the birch until the trees thinned out, giving way to a wide-open valley. The Tanana River meandered its way through the landscape where it would eventually join the Yukon. Over the summer they caught silver salmon by the sackful, almost turning them into pescatarians in the warmer months.

  As they made their way along the bank, Jonesy saw blocks of ice tumbling their way downstream. In another week, the freeze would begin in earnest and the river would become a sedentary ribbon of solid ice. As thick as the ice became, neither of them relished the idea of testing it to find food again. It was a dangerous game to play.

  The sky was leaden, and as they crossed the open space the wind grew stronger, blowing straight off the most westerly peaks of the Kuskokwim Mountains.

  Jonesy rearranged his hat over his ears and walked to Lisa’s side. “Want me to take over?” he asked.

  She nodded in reply and unfastened the harness. Lad looked at them both in disgust and sniffed at the air again.

  Jonesy took the canteen off the sled and passed it to his wife. She took a long drink and handed it to him. “Thinking about your belly?” she asked, smiling.

  He smiled back, raising his eyebrows. “Tenderloin cooked with some of those mushrooms you dehydrated and maybe some mashed potatoes.”

  She winked at him. “You can have it any way you like, it’s your turn to cook.” She took the
Winchester from his shoulder. “Now get a move on before it gets dark.” Her breath was an icy cloud. She slapped him hard on the ass and turned away, scanning the birch forest from which they had just come.

  Jonesy fastened the harness, giving Lad a pat on his flank. “You don’t really need me for this, do you?”

  The dog narrowed his brown eyes against a flurry of snow and pulled. The sled moved easily, turning slowly to the left, to the side of the valley. He no longer had to guide Lad, the dog knew exactly which way to go.

  Sitka spruce covered both sides of the valley as it rose upward. Within a few yards, whatever silvery sunlight had been shining on the valley floor vanished, leaving them in a dusky half-light. Their trail zigzagged up the incline, rising through the forest and back into the light again. The smell was earthy and damp and full of life. A solitary ptarmigan scuttled across the path trying to find cover, its legs a blur. Lad watched it pass thirty feet in front and gave a gruff growl. He might have given chase had he not been harnessed to the sled. But even two hundred pounds of meat on his back didn’t provide a guarantee. This time he let the bird go. This time.

  Two years ago, Jonesy and Lisa had to make the climb in three stages, pausing for coffee from a Thermos between each stage. It was accompanied by burning thighs, aching lungs and a sore back for a few days. Now it was a comfortable journey, even with the caribou’s extra weight.

  They reached the top and walked along the trail toward the cabin. To the left, the plateau stretched into the distance. It was barren; a snow-covered rocky tundra with occasional blooms of caribou moss peeking through. In the summer the animals came to feast on the moss, lichen and mushrooms that grew in abundance. Although there was little cover, it made hunting easier. For one thing, it didn’t take half a day to get there. Beyond the plateau, about one hundred and fifty miles away, was the town of Fairbanks.

  They crossed the spring that acted as their main water source. Clean, fresh water bubbled out of the ground in an icy stream, cascading down into the valley and into the Tanana. When it froze over, they would need the auger to drill holes and then a hatchet to break through the ice and collect the water.