Wildlife - A Dark Thriller

by Menapace, Jeff

  Liz nodded.

  Russ, not one for cursing, said: “Can we just fucking do it already?”

  ***

  Father and daughter now lay back to back. Getting into that position—endlessly worming around on a wooden floor with both wrists and ankles tightly bound—was far more cumbersome than Liz imagined it might be. Cumbersome and painful. If her shoulders and hips and neck and every other damn thing had complained during the process, how had her poor father felt? Oh, and just you wait until we get to your thumb, Dad.

  Liz gripped her father’s whole hand first. He gripped hers back. They could not see one another, but sight would have added nothing to the power of their embrace.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  Their hands loosened their grip on one another, and Liz grabbed her father’s thumb whole.

  “Down and towards the rest of the fingers,” Ethan said, both he and Noah straining intently to watch from the bed.

  “I know,” Liz said.

  “It’s gonna hurt, Mr. Burk—but you can’t scream.”

  “I know,” Russ said.

  “Liz, make sure you—”

  “Ethan, will you please shut up?” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  Russ began to wince, preparing for the pain.

  Vicky looked away.

  “Do it,” Russ said.

  Liz jerked her father’s thumb down and towards his fingers. There was a muffled pop. Russ’ entire face became an excruciating grimace, his jaw muscles clenched so tightly that they jutted from the hinges like knuckles. His face was instantly red, nearly purple, like a man struggling to breathe—and he was, for the rapid fire snorts from his nostrils were his only source of exhale, fear that he might cry out if he were to unclench his jaw keeping it nailed shut.

  Liz immediately began worming and flopping towards her father so she could face him. She’d witnessed her father wince at the pain his arthritis had caused from menial tasks about their home in the past. She could not even begin to fathom the pain he was feeling now.

  She faced him. His face was already wet with the sweat of agony. Russ looked his daughter in the eyes, his face no less red, no less twitchy and desperate to contain a scream, and he actually smiled. And it was a real smile. One obviously tainted by pain, but it was no grimace or placating gesture to assuage his daughter’s concern. It was a loving smile, a smile that said he would do it all again for her, that no sacrifice would ever be too great. Liz started to cry.

  “Sweetheart,” Russ said, finally daring to open his mouth. “Sweetheart, you need to stop. When we get home—and we will get home—you and I can sit and cry for days. Right now we need to keep it together, okay? We need to keep it together. You broke my thumb very well; Daddy’s proud of you.”

  Liz gave a half-cry, half-chuckle. She then nodded and wiped her tears on her shoulder. “I’m okay…can you do it? Can you pull your hand free?”

  Russ glanced up at the bed. “This isn’t going to tickle either, is it?” he said.

  Ethan and Noah didn’t respond. Their faces, wrought with sympathy, spoke to him instead: No it isn’t, Mr. Burk.

  Russ did not hesitate. He pulled at his binds, his face turning back into that same grimacing picture of agony. His jaw clenched tight once again, his breathing like machine-gun fire through his nose.

  For a moment, her father’s struggle seemed too intense, and Liz wanted to insist he stop, that there might be another way. But such thinking was akin to changing your mind after you’d already leapt from the plane. All she could do was float next to her father and assure him that his chute would pop open at any—

  POP!

  Russ’ arm flew out from behind his back as though jerked free from some unseen string above. An instant relief washed over his face, and he immediately began moving his arm in circles in an effort to regain circulation.

  Everyone but Vicky exhaled simultaneously. Her head had remained turned for the duration, unable to watch her husband’s suffering. When she heard the collective sighs—Russ’ chief among them—she turned and let out her own, an expression of both love and admiration for her husband’s heroics housing that sigh.

  With his good hand, the now-loose rope still wrapped around his wrist, Russ used the edge of the bed to pull himself to his feet. He immediately looked down at the binds that held his ankles, bent and started fiddling with them. He soon rose, a frustrated look on his face.

  “We need something that can cut. I can’t untie them, especially one-handed.”

  “Start with that dresser over there,” Ethan said. “From what I gather, this is Harlon’s room—he don’t have at least one knife in here then I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  Russ hopped as delicately as he could towards the dresser.

  The TV in the den was still on, the saw outside was still buzzing.

  Two more hops.

  He lost his balance on the second, colliding with the wall, inadvertently using his bad hand to brace the collision, bringing out an involuntary cry of pain.

  All heads whipped towards the door, not the least being Russ’. He was upright now, hand over his mouth, but the damage had been done.

  The room fearfully listened for two sounds: the din of the TV dropping, or the thumping of angry feet towards the bedroom door. The latter of which could be negated if the former was not done—sound cloaking sound. It added a cruel jack-in-the-box element of surprise to a moment that was already unsurpassed in its excruciating wait.

  They waited and listened.

  No TV dropping, no thudding footsteps. This could be good or bad. Sound cloaking sound. They could only wait and see if the jack popped from its box, barging into the room, finding what they’d done.

  So now they waited and watched, the metaphorical handle on the box turning slowly, each nuanced pitch from the television a musical ding after a crank on the handle.

  One minute. Two.

  It was safe now. It had to be. These were not subtle people, Liz thought. If the crazy old lady had heard them—or, somehow, the crazy men with the chainsaw—then the room would have been stormed immediately.

  “I think we’re good,” Liz whispered from the floor.

  Russ acknowledged his daughter with a quick nod. He had one hop left to arrive at the dresser. He made it with little to no sound. He began checking the drawers, each one pulled, searched, and then pushed back with antique care.

  It was on the third dresser drawer that he spotted the knife. And what a knife. Mr. Dundee should be so lucky.

  Russ spun towards the group, brandishing his find. He immediately bent and cut his own ankles free. He went to Vicky first.

  “No—” she said, gesturing towards the bed. “The boys first. Once they’re free you can hand the knife over to them. It’ll be faster.”

  Russ hesitated.

  “Russ, pragmatism trumps chivalry on this one,” she said.

  Russ hurried towards the bed.

  Chapter 27

  Harlon and Tucker Roy were nearly finished with Sam. His arms and legs were now stacked next to Ron and Adelyn’s like fleshy logs. The head and torso remained.

  Tucker handed the idling chainsaw to Harlon. “Here—you do the rest.”

  Harlon took the saw with a smirk. “Gettin’ squeamish?”

  Tucker wiped a spray of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Tired of gettin’ messy. You can have a turn.”

  “And yet I did Ron Daigle all by my lonesome when you wasn’t here.”

  “And then made me do Adelyn and now Sam. You can have a turn.”

  “You sure?” Harlon asked. “Head’s the best part.”

  Tucker shook his head and removed his apron. “Nah…you’re not having any fun,” he said disapprovingly.

  Harlon grinned and revved the saw. Above the roar, he shouted: “Told you, little brother—I can have a good time anywhere.”

  Tucker was still shaking his head as he started towards
the house…where the Daigle boys and the Burks had just cut the last of their binds.

  Chapter 28

  The pros and cons of two escape options were quickly discussed.

  “I say the window,” Russ whispered urgently. “It’s nearly dark now. If we’re quiet, we’ll be home before they even realize we’re gone.”

  “Too slow,” Ethan said. “We’d need to go one at a time. I say the door. Only Travis and his meemaw out there. I could put each of them out with one good whack.”

  “And suppose Harlon and Tucker are there as well?” Russ asked.

  “I still hear the chainsaw, don’t you?”

  Nobody spoke for a tick. The saw was roaring outside.

  “It’s too risky,” Russ said. “Suppose you don’t knock them out right away? Suppose they start screaming and hollering just when that chainsaw happens to stop?”

  Ethan raised the knife. “Then I’ll cut their damn throats—” Tears of rage and sorrow filmed his eyes. “Hell, I plan on coming back and doing it anyway.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Ethan,” Russ began. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you and your brother must be feeling right now. But please don’t let anger cloud your common sense.”

  Ethan wiped away his tears with a quick, angry swipe of his hand. “I’m just thinking of the fastest way is all.”

  “Maybe fastest isn’t smartest.”

  In an impatient whisper, Liz said: “Both will be irrelevant if they come in here while we’re debating—let’s pick one and go.”

  Russ and Ethan exchanged stares, each one vibrating with adrenaline. If they didn’t move now, they were inviting death.

  Ethan finally sighed. “The window,” he said.

  Russ patted him on the shoulder, and they all hurried towards the window.

  Tucker Roy opened the door.

  Chapter 29

  Tucker Roy had walked through his front door spotted in blood and looking for whiskey. His mother, hypnotized by the television, paid him no mind. His son Travis was as equally uninterested in his arrival; he was stuck to the sofa, his face in one of those handheld video game machines Tucker loathed so much.

  Tucker had begun going through the cabinets. He saw a jar of Harlon’s moonshine, considered it, and then reconsidered. Harlon’s moonshine, despite his insistence otherwise, was 180 proof piss. Tucker wanted real whiskey. Good whiskey.

  He’d called to his mother in her chair, asking where it was, but her response was to turn the volume up on the TV. He’d then thought of Harlon again—how he was known to keep the good stuff in his room. Except his room was “occupied” right now. But what did that matter? He didn’t have to talk or even look at any of them. He could just enter, go through Harlon’s dresser, find the whiskey, and then be on his way.

  And so Tucker headed towards Harlon’s room and opened the door…

  Chapter 30

  For a brief moment, it was like the scene of an attempted burglary. Intruders by an open window. Intruders freezing instantaneously upon discovery. Homeowner equally frozen as he processed the scene.

  Except these were no intruders. They wanted out. And the homeowner, done processing the scene, wanted them in.

  Tucker lunged for them, grabbing the first neck he could. It was Liz’s, and she cried out. Russ immediately swung his good fist at Tucker’s face. The punch landed, yet Tucker hardly noticed as he throttled Liz, both hands around her neck as if he meant to crush instead of choke. Liz gurgled, kicking and clawing up at Tucker futilely. Russ punched again and again, each blow ineffectual; they were the first punches Russ Burk had ever thrown in his adult life.

  Ethan shoved Russ aside and rammed Harlon’s knife deep into Tucker’s gut.

  That shot was effective.

  Tucker let go of Liz. She dropped to the floor, coughing wildly. Tucker stumbled backwards, grabbing his stomach and wincing as though horribly sick. He hit the wall and slid down, his expression of extreme intestinal distress never changing.

  “Stab him again!” Noah cried. “Stab him again!”

  Ethan lunged down at Tucker with the knife. Tucker caught Ethan at the wrist. A brief test of strength ensued, Ethan’s hand vibrating with effort as he struggled to push the knife into Tucker’s throat, Tucker resisting, pushing back, winning, eventually wrenching Ethan’s wrist with one violent jerk, the blade coming free, skidding across the wooden floor.

  Ethan, his right wrist stuck in Tucker’s powerful grip, resorted to swinging wildly with his left, repeatedly punching down at Tucker’s face for all he was worth, the slumped Tucker and his debilitating wound making an otherwise mismatch level.

  Noah joined in, kicking Tucker from the side as though he meant to punt his head from his shoulders. Tucker defended himself against both boys as best he could, his grip on Ethan’s wrist wavering, the repeated punches and kicks from the Daigle boys beginning to have an effect.

  A primal screech pierced the chaos, and Noah spun to see Ida Roy lunging forward, hands outstretched in savage claws, looking to gouge whatever she could latch on to.

  “DIRTY FUCKERS!!!”

  Ida grabbed Noah’s face, tearing and raking with ferocious intent. Noah screamed, turned away and began flailing blindly and defensively, desperate to peel the wild animal from his face.

  Liz lunged forward, snatching Ida by her scraggly hair, ripping her off of Noah and dragging her towards the dresser where she smashed her head against the wood repeatedly, Vicky joining her daughter, grabbing Ida’s hair and adding force to each thudding smash.

  Ida would not give, her screeching actually gathering strength with each whack she received. In desperation, Vicky resorted to grabbing and biting Ida’s arm. This brought forth another screech that was growing a more potent deterrent by the second; they were angering the beast not destroying it.

  Ethan stepped forward, grabbed hold of Ida’s hair, and jerked her backwards, the force such that Liz and Vicky lost their own grip. With her scalp in his left hand, Ethan rammed countess uppercuts into Ida’s face, the first punch knocking her cold, though Ethan held on, keeping her slack body upright, continuing to punch, the effects of adrenaline blinding him to her unconsciousness…or not.

  Ethan eventually let go, and Ida hit the floor face-first. Tucker moaned for his mother, and Ethan spun and slammed a kick into Tucker’s face, dazing him, his head and torso lolling to one side. Ethan kicked again and again, Tucker too weak now to defend. Russ pulled Ethan off, Ethan then turning on Russ with wild eyes, demanding a reason why he should stop—and Russ had a damn good one:

  “Where’s the kid!?” Russ asked. “Where’s Travis!?”

  Everyone stopped, the only sounds the TV and the constant buzzing of the chainsaw outside. Ethan sprinted for the door and looked out into the living room. Travis was not there.

  The buzz of the chainsaw outside stopped.

  Chapter 31

  Ida Roy lie face down on the floor, unconscious. Tucker Roy was slumped over onto his side, semi-conscious and mumbling, his stomach awash with blood.

  Travis was gone.

  The sound of the chainsaw outside had stopped.

  The math was frighteningly clear: Travis had run to his Uncle Harlon plus Travis had told his Uncle Harlon what had happened equaled Uncle Harlon was now headed their way.

  “We can’t just stand here and wait,” Russ said.

  “We go to the front door,” Ethan said. “We ambush him when he comes inside.”

  All eyes fell on the open bedroom door, and beyond that, the front door to the Roy home.

  “No,” Russ said. “He has a gun. We need to run.”

  “We run and he’ll give chase,” Ethan said, “shootin’ as he does. He’ll catch one of us.” Ethan glanced at Vicky. “Your wife has a bad knee. What do you reckon the odds are he tags the slowest one? Better we catch him by surprise while we can!”

  “He’s right,” Vicky said.

  Russ gaped at his wife. “What?”

  “I can’t
run. If we have a chance to end this now, we should take it. I say we jump the son of a bitch the moment he walks through that door.”

  “Damn right,” Ethan said. “Let’s move now. He comes through that door while we’re in here and we lose the element of surprise.”

  Harlon Roy appeared at the bedroom window. His eyes were wild and lustful for atrocity.

  And no one saw him…their collective gaze was on the bedroom door, considering Ethan’s plan.

  Liz eventually turned. Harlon was gone. The sound of the chainsaw in the distance came a short moment after.

  “Is that…?” Liz asked.

  Russ nodded at his daughter. “Sure sounds like it.”

  “Maybe Travis didn’t run to Harlon,” Vicky said. “Maybe he just ran. Maybe Harlon doesn’t know.”

  “Well, then I say we just go,” Russ said.

  Even Ethan nodded at the idea.

  “You sure you can lead us out on foot?” Russ asked.

  “Blindfolded,” Ethan said.

  “We just might be,” Russ said as he glanced back at the window. It was officially night.

  The sound of the chainsaw continued its metallic whine, now sounding as if it was shifting locations, getting closer towards the front of the house.

  “Is he out front?” Vicky asked.

  “Why would he be?” Russ said.

  “Well, it sure as hell sounds that way!”

  The sound of the saw seemed to hover out front, periodically idling, and then periodically roaring to life before settling into another droning idle.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Vicky asked.

  Ethan shook his head. “Don’t know. Maybe he’s…maybe…”

  “What?”

  Ethan dropped his head and spoke softly, as though he’d just been scolded. “Well, the hatch to his gator farm is round the side of the house, closer to the front really. Maybe now that it’s dark, he figures it’s safer to bring some of his…some of his ‘work’ that way.”