by Alan Spencer
"That whole business was a sour lot. But I'm glad you survived, kiddo. You must be the Willy Tim always talked about when we got together every now and again. We both like to work with our hands, your uncle and I. I was a carpenter most of my life, and he was an engineer, but his mind was a creative one. Tim used both sides of his brain. Real smart and crafty, that guy. The best friend I ever had. I still miss him."
Willy didn't feel like reminiscing about the man who died saving his life, and Tally sensed it, and even apologized. "I'm a perfect stranger, kid, and I'm going on about things like we're pals. Forgive me. I'll skip the sentimental stuff. I'll tell you something you might not have known before today. It's bullshit what those local boys did to your uncle's house. I heard they threw flaming jars at his property and lit that place up. They knew your uncle was gone, but they didn't know you were in the basement playing with his toys."
Willy didn't want to hear this. "Hey man, I don't mean to be a jerk or anything—"
"Hear me out, Willy. Then I'll leave you alone. You need to hear this." There was a pressing need in the man's eyes that caused Willy to stop resisting the story. "This is what this meeting's about. Reparations. The county finally opened up the cold case again. It turns out some people on the city council put those boys up to lighting up that house. They wanted your uncle's property for a highway project. It'd bring in new tourists. A rogue detective got to the bottom of it. This is why we're finally here. A pending lawsuit was filed, and we won. Plus, somebody finally found an existing will. Listen, I knew your uncle well enough to know that he'd be happy you survived the fire. You've got nothing to feel sorry about, my friend. Tim loved you very much."
As if Tally had memorized and said his piece, he stopped talking. The man was satisfied. They waited in sluggish silence for another ten minutes before a man in a gray business suit entered the room. He had a long handlebar white mustache and a face that had seen the gamut of good and bad blood between relatives and could care less about people's feelings. This was a job and nothing more. The executor of the will introduced himself as Neil Hunter. Neil read off of a piece of paper he had pulled out of a thick manila envelope whose seal had been broken at the top.
"To the order of the family, friends, and relatives of Tim Ryan Hawker, I hereby bequeath..."
Willy heard counts of money, trusts, and stock in companies he had never heard of nor cared to know. He didn't really listen until his name was called. When the executor licked his lips and reshaped his mouth to speak with public forum eloquence, it made the entire room go still. Everybody's head was aimed straight at Neil Hunter and the words he was about to unleash. The burning eyes in the room seemed to break the man's confidence. The executor paused, started to read, stumbled on his words, and then sat down the papers he was reading from and motioned with his pointer finger for Willy to join him at the front of the room.
Willy was confused. He hesitantly walked up to the executor. Neil whispered to Willy, "It says I should tell you this in private. Shall we take a walk? These folks will understand. When it comes to money, they learn patience."
Willy wanted to say "these folks" were rich assholes or dumb hicks who didn't care about his uncle, but he simply said that was fine. He would go outside and take a walk.
They made their way out the front entrance steps and faced a wide open yard of green grass. They went as far as crossing the other side of the road to a trail in the nearby woods. Once they were far enough from the historical house, or any vague possibility of earshot, Neil spoke.
"You were Tim's favorite, from what I've read in the notes your uncle made in his will. This is really special, so before you ask me any questions, just let me finish. Your uncle had something different in mind for you. It's not a handout or a pile of money. Your uncle had more respect for you than that. You're going to have to have a leap of faith for his wishes to come true. Things won't be very clear at first. In his file, he's given me directions for you to follow. You are to drive out to his house. He's given me directions to his place. Follow them precisely, that's very important. You're done with the reading of the will. I wouldn't bother sitting in on the rest. Oh, and let me explain another thing. Why this will's being read fifteen years after your uncle's death is very complicated. A lot of red tape, some broken laws, city violations, but it's mostly about red tape you don't want to hear about. So drive to his house and enjoy the property. You'll know what to do from there."
He followed Neil back to the historical house's parking lot. Neil waited for Willy to enter his car before he went back inside to finish the reading of the will inside. Willy reserved his questions, reading the piece of paper the man had given him with hand-scrawled directions on it. He got into his car to read them over.
Willy was about to drive out to his uncle's house when he remembered the man's house had burned down fifteen years ago.
FIRE!
Brock woke to the smell of black smoke and the sound of fire eating at the walls. Both walls opposite them were blanketed in raging flames. Billowing smoke blinded half the guest house by the time he bolted awake. Brock shook Hannah awake. She screamed, horrified at the turn of events. There was only one thing to do, and Brock jumped on the opportunity before it was too late. He raced to the barricade at the front door, shouting, "Come on, help me! We can't stay here!"
Peeling off chairs and shoving aside the table, it was barely a minute later they were sprinting into the open air free of choking smoke and the intensifying heat. The roof caved in with the loud crash of timbers, the structure sending out a great poof of smoke into the sky after the collapse. When they stopped to catch their breaths near the street, a rifle was drawn in their direction. "Don't move."
Brock gasped, then raised up his hands. Hannah did the same.
One man turned into three others, two of them being women. They were the same individuals from the mountain climbing store yesterday. One of them was carrying a gas can with a cruel smile chiseled on his face. The group sized them up for a moment before the same speaker instructed the others, "Pick their pockets."
The woman rummaged through Brock's pants and stole his wallet and Hannah had lost her purse in the car fire. He watched the woman's eyes light up at the hundred dollars cash in his wallet. She sorted through the credit cards with bedazzled eyes, her mouth drawn open as if to praise the heavens for such a generous prize. The other woman shunned Hannah for turning up nothing, even aiming the rifle's muzzle in her direction. "You're not hiding anything from us, are you, lady? Cough up every penny."
"My purse was in the car when you set it on fire."
The comment devastated the woman. Then she turned mean again. "Then it looks like we got what need. These two are useless."
The two men were conferring with each other, talking under their breaths, and then they each approached Brock and Hannah. One of them said, "Start walking down into the woods. Make a straight line. And don't try and run. We have four guns trained on your backs."
The nozzle was jabbed into Brock's back. "Don't try anything. Get walking."
Hannah shot Brock a face plagued with horror, and it sent the worst sensation through him. Panic wasn't enough to describe the creeping dread, the knowing of something horrible could happen and they were helpless against it. They were taking them into the woods to kill them, Brock believed. There was no other reason for them to walk on ahead of the group. Trembling now, it was hard to keep a solid footing on the rocky terrain, though they somehow walked together down into the woods.
Brock waited for the four to say something to indicate their intentions, but they remained silent. Brock toyed with the idea of running.
You won't get far. The scopes on those rifles, they could play sniper from any distance and hit you right between the eyes.
Rage brewed in his blood knowing their death was so undeserved and yet it would happen anyway. I can't die like this, he kept telling himself, Hannah can't die like this.
Lie to them, he conspired. It's money they
want.
Ahead, the woods dipped at a downward incline, and there was a roaring river frothing below them.
This is where they're going to execute us.
Hesitation gripped him, turning his feet into heavy cinder blocks. His body did everything to deter him from taking those next steps towards the river. Hannah was weeping. The four still didn't speak, and that's when Brock knew if he didn't try anything now, he'd be punching in his own death ticket.
"I know where there's more money. I have a sister who lives here. I was visiting her. She's rich as hell. She used to be in movie production. She's the kid of Gene Richards. You ever heard of Gene Richards?"
"He's lying," one of them said. The words were as sharp as gravel hitting the undercarriage of a car. "They always make up shit before we shoot them."
Hannah cried harder now.
"Check my driver's license. I'm Brock Richards. I'm the son of Gene Richards. We have more money, but it's not out here."
"He's trying to stall us."
"He is stalling."
"I say we take what we got and move on before he shows up."
"We can't hide from that bastard forever."
"I'll fucking try."
Brock eyed the ground for a stone, a broken tree limb, any weapon that he could possibly use. Three feet to his left, he discovered a good sized tree limb the size of a baseball bat. Hannah's face was wet from crying.
"All right, which one dies first?"
The question sparked him into action. Bending his knees, leaning forward, grasping the tree limb with his hands, Brock swung it hard. The meat of it smacked the woman behind him across the face. The connection caused her lights to go out, both eyes turning into the back of their sockets. She faltered backwards.
"Get down, Hannah!"
Brock swung again, his weapon baring down like a sledgehammer upon the man's back who tried to shoot Hannah. The blow sent him onto all fours, leaving him disoriented.
Two more enemies were left to dispatch, but Brock was confused by what happened next.
One of them shouted, "Shit, he's here! He's right behind us! Ruuuuuuuun!"
An object whooshed through the air. The object was a blur, it spun so fast and from so far away. Brock still hadn't seen who they were talking about. All he witnessed was the woman's neck stuck to the tree by an axe. She bled from both mouth and neck, what spurted out in generous sprays. Twitching and with both hands down at her sides, a man charged from the woods. The hulking rage of a man re-claimed the weapon, ripping back the axe and making the woman's body fall down like a rag doll. The removal nearly took the woman's head clean off.
Brock caught the man's beefy figure, his neck thicker than the width of his head. His face was a furious collection of hard lines all bent to inspire fear, but the eyes, there was something off about them. They were missing the human element, they were buried so deeply in the sockets removing all character and lending the stranger a callous, ice cold killer look.
Rifle shots cracked. Brock ducked, covering himself over Hannah, taking in the sharp smell of burnt cordite, his ears aching from the deafening blasts and the slew of curses and warnings echoing from every direction. Before Brock could check if it was clear to run, he was lifted off of Hannah by a force too strong to reckon with, and before he could see anything else, he was thrown hard backwards. His hands slashed at empty air, his legs slipping over wet leaves and rocks. He plummeted forward, taking a tumble. The force of the momentum pitched Brock into the icy cold river.
A REAL EYE OPENING EXPERIENCE
Willy Hawker sat in his car disturbed by the idea that his uncle would bequeath him an empty piece of land. A piece of land that was supposed to be burned down fifteen years ago. The city had bulldozed the remains of Tim Hawker's property just days after the fire happened. As Tally hinted to earlier before the reading of the will, the highway project had taken over Tim's property. So what the hell was he driving to see, a stretch of beaten road? He was curious enough about it to follow the directions on the piece of paper. This was proving to be quite interesting. What would he do with this piece of property? If it was a highway, was he in charge of its maintenance? That couldn't be right, Willy thought. Somebody had made an error.
"That's got to be it," he said to himself, stepping out of the car and heading back towards the historical house. "I have talk to that guy again. There's obviously been a mistake. No other way to explain it. This is too crazy."
Up the stairs, Willy suddenly didn't want to be here anymore. He had bequeathed a burden. In the back of your mind, you were really hoping there was something left from his mechanical collection.
Don't kid yourself. It all burned. It's gone forever.
Willy opened the door quietly so as not to disturb the proceedings. He expected Neil Hunter to be divvying out whatever monies were due to the family. He didn't expect the room to be silent. Nobody breathed either, because everybody was sprawled out on the floor. The chairs were scattered, as if those sitting in them had tried to run from something in a big hurry. On top of that, everybody who was here earlier was on the ground, and in pieces. Torsos without their extremities had landed on the ground, their arms, legs, and heads shot out across the room as if their bodies had been cruelly dismembered. Sticky blood decorated the walls and dripped from the ceiling. He feared whatever had done this impossible feat of murder was still here.
Willy heard the door out the back way open and close. Willy shot forward, rushing to the noise, towards the person who had left the building. The man who stood in the backyard froze where he stood. He knew he had been spotted and there was no point in running.
That man was Tally.
His uncle's old friend from high school.
Tally had an explanation that wanted to leave his lips, but the man couldn't gather the gall to spill it. His eyes were bulging in terror. The confidence in Tally's demeanor and that friendly "I once knew you uncle" bit had vanished. Tally was a man caught in an unlawful act. The man's body was poised as if he could take off running towards the cars parked on the back square of gravel, but Tally didn't move.
What Tally said Willy couldn't have been predicted under any circumstance.
"I don't have much longer to live, so why not tell you what I know, right? I did it for one reason, so I got what I wanted. Anymore good that could've come out of this situation has dried up."
Willy's body burned with a mix of shock and incredulity. This guy was clearly crazy, he thought. Tally had somehow cut up those people. Willy couldn't trust the man. Tally's motives for murder were obvious.
"You did it for the money. You killed them for the inheritance."
Tally didn't hear those words. "You're here. Tim got what he wanted. I've done my part. I got to see my family one more time. I got to hold my grandkids one more time. Tim honored his end of the deal, and I honored mine. Now it's time for me to die—"
The next sight would repeat in Willy's mind during the many miles he peeled out down the road. Willy kept shaking his head, taking double breaths and gasping because he forgot the basic function of breathing. Every one of Tally's extremities, including his head, ejected themselves from his body at a high pressure, the body parts tearing through his suit and spraying so much blood it misted the man's surroundings for many yards. Willy didn't stick around long enough to see the man's limbs hit the ground. Willy had already fled to his car.
RUDE AWAKENING
Brock didn't open his eyes right when he returned to consciousness. Somehow keeping his eyes shut lessened the pain in his skull. His body was one large muscle that had been bruised and left tender. He was laying on an uncomfortable bed of jagged edges. River rocks. The sound of rolling waters surrounded him. Brock shivered in the mist that kept spraying him. He stank of the woods, of untreated water, of wet bark and the rich scent of mud and clay. Coughing up a mouthful of rancid tasting water and stomach bile, Brock finally opened his eyes. The sky was a pale gray, shedding light that matched the color of the quartz st
ones he was splayed on. He was slow to rise, but once he remembered how he came to be here, he forced himself up quickly, climbing the loose rocks and hiking to the top of the bank. Arriving there, Brock had a good view of the distant horizon. The river channeled for miles, and it was impossible to know how far he'd been shot down the current from where he'd fallen in.
Gaining his breath, he shouted with everything he had left in his lungs. "Han-nah! Hannah, where are you?"
He ran forward, going the direction against the flow of the channel. After stumbling over many rocks, he arrived back at the mouth of the woods and kept running. "Hannah! Han-nah!"
Brock stopped after half a mile, but it wasn't his body that gave up. Ahead of him, the leaves below the trees were covered in dark crimson spatters in a wide circular pattern. Nobody was else was here. He searched for tracks of blood, trying to find a telltale path, and not locating anymore blood, he had no idea where to look for Hannah next.
His shouts carried through the trees and hovered on the wind for miles. "You better not harm her! You hear me? I'll kill you myself! I'll kill you!"
Brock decided to backtrack even farther, heading back to that yellow house. He was shivering and cold to the bone during the trek. He'd catch his death if he didn't dry off. After wandering around for what felt like an hour, he found the house. Entering the place, he located the bedroom, and shrugging the awful corpse smell, and he dug through the oak drawers and borrowed a man's wool sweater, black jeans, and a pair of running shoes that were half a size too big.
When he slung off his old pants, he heard a jangle. He reached in and found a quarter and a dime. He put the change in his pocket out of habit. Dried and feeling warm again, Brock hit the road on foot. He ran onto the main road, hoping he'd come upon more houses, buildings, or civilization.
Brock cleared another two miles before he coming upon another person. Seeing something ahead, Brock's pace was belittled to a slow jog. He was out of breath and his lungs panged with each intake of air. The thing that kept him going was the hatchback truck with wooden slats on the sides built up to create a barrier over the truck bed. The truck's engine was running. He approached the vehicle slowly. Brock breached the gap between him and easy transportation. He would demand the driver to take him to the police station.
