by Chuck Buda
I’m fucked.
Spencer put his left hand outside the window. He raised his right hand so it would be visible through the back window. “Listen man. I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“Shut the fuck up. Turn off your engine.”
Spencer heard the distant squeal of another set of sirens.
“I can’t do both at the same time. You told me to put my hands up. Now you want me to turn the engine off.”
“Don’t be a wise-ass, scumbag. You’re finished.” The officer barked some more banter into his walkie. “He’s resisting. Bring everything we got.”
Spencer lost his temper. This cop was pissing him off. Pulling over and putting his hands in the air was hardly resisting. “Dude, I’m not resisting. I’m sitting right fucking here.” Spencer spat the words back.
He heard the officer take a few steps closer. “I’m not going to ask you again, motherfucker. Turn off the fucking engine or I’m going to blow your fucking brains out. Do it now.”
Spencer went into complete rage. All his chances of killing Zoe were gone. He had no way of getting out of this. He was being held at gunpoint and more cops were coming. Spencer was smart enough to calculate his odds of getting away. He did some faster math on dying.
Spencer had nothing to lose. He was fucked either way. At least he could attempt to get to her in time to snuff her life from her body. Giving up to the police was a dead end. Finished. Over.
Spencer’s left hand, still protruding out the window, morphed as he lowered all the fingers with the exception of his middle digit. He punched the gas, tires screeching and kicking up pebbles and dust.
The sound of loud popping echoed through the open window. Spencer floored the pedal and tore off. He took a split second to look in the mirror. The shape of the officer cut through the brightness of the spotlight.
Suddenly, Spencer felt moisture on his left rib cage. He ran his fingers down his side and winced at the opening he found. Spencer lifted his fingers up. They were covered in dark blood. Fresh blood.
New flashing blues and reds filled his windshield. Another police car, most likely the one who had been dispatched as backup, drove directly at him in a game of chicken. The cop was going to force Spencer to stop or crash in order to miss a head-on collision.
They got me.
Spencer gunned the engine.
If they want to play chicken, then that’s what they’re going to get.
The two cars aimed at each other, never slowed their velocities. Spencer found it increasingly difficult to keep his focus. The gunshot wound was beginning to take its toll. His lack of depth perception with a missing eye added more difficulty to the equation. Spencer realized he had fewer options. His mind began looking for a place where he could crawl off and die. The survival reflex took over where Spencer’s will waned.
He steered his car into the front panel of the police car coming at him. Spencer’s car had the momentum as the officer had finally abandoned the no-win prospect of a head-on crash. Time slowed down. Spencer witnessed the cop’s eyes go wide right before impact. He saw each individual flake of glass penetrate the officer’s face. Spencer’s head lunged forward into the steering wheel. The wind crushed out of his lungs in a punishing gust. Spencer felt the front end of his car accordion up into his torso. His legs crunched under metal. Then the car bounced right and spun in a semi-circle before coming to rest in a sizzling pile of wreckage and fluids.
Spencer coughed up blood. His head rested against the door frame which was now bent at a perpendicular angle. He saw the cop who had pulled him over speeding to the site of the crash. He heard more sirens on the other side of the vehicle.
He knew he had to make a stand. To die like this would be more than tragic. It would be a waste.
Spencer shoved the remainder of the door open. He tumbled out of the car with the relic sword clinking along the asphalt. He pulled himself onto his feet, even though he knew one leg was twisted almost completely around. The pain of putting his weight on it gave him an extra jolt of life-affirming energy.
Spencer hobbled over to the squad car that he had run into. He opened the door and stared down at the cop. The man was staring back at him with a fogginess in his eyes. Spencer couldn’t tell if the man was dying or just in shock. He would fix that anyway.
Spencer thrust the sword into the man’s throat, skewering his Adam’s apple which seemed to grab at the steel. Spencer yanked the sword back and watched a geyser of blood shoot across the car’s interior. The wound was so bad the officer didn’t make a move to clutch the gash or stop the bleeding.
The police car skidded behind Spencer. He smiled as the officer with the attitude jumped out and began barking orders again. Spencer turned to face his tormentor. All he saw was shadows. And yet, he knew it was Zoe who stood before him. She must’ve just masked her voice to sound like a man.
Spencer raised the sword above his head and screamed.
“Fuck you, Zoe!”
Several shots were fired. One had found its mark. It had pierced the empty cavity where an eyeball used to sit.
Chapter 20
“Ryan?”
Aiden stepped gingerly over the curb. He listened for any movement in the surrounding area. Aiden noticed the sounds of crickets and night life was absent. Ordinarily, the woods would be teeming with nocturnal life. However, an eerie silence hung over the edge of the park like a noose.
He stole a glance at Samantha. She hung back a few paces with a strained expression on her face. Aiden figured Samantha was concentrating on the strangeness as well. Aiden took another step and scanned the tree line.
Blackness.
One of the reasons the group of friends enjoyed meeting up in this spot was because it was private. Somewhat remote. In a congested suburb of New York City, any natural landscape was prime real estate. The Tenafly cops patrolled the park and the swim club on weekends, looking for kids partying or hooking up. Aiden wondered if it was so late the police figured kids would be home by now.
Either that or they were pre-occupied with other trouble.
Samantha stunned Aiden with a sharp psst sound. He squinted in the direction of her nod. Ahead nearly twenty feet, a light-colored tee shirt was crumpled on the dirt trail. Aiden leaned forward making sure it was indeed a garment of clothing and not a piece of trash that had blown across the grass. He approached the trail head and bent to inspect the item.
An orange tee shirt.
Ryan’s tee shirt.
Aiden’s belly sunk as nightmarish visions played out in his mind. He hoped it was just paranoia and that he wouldn’t stumble upon another deceased friend.
Samantha placed her hand on Aiden’s shoulder, causing him to jump in the air and squeal. Samantha stifled a giggle at Aiden’s less-than-masculine, frightful reaction. He huffed at being scared; although, the embarrassment of his noise quickly overpowered the former.
Aiden tilted his head in disgust. Samantha shrugged her shoulders and whispered that she was sorry. He picked up Ryan’s shirt and looked it over. There appeared to be no integrity issues with the clothing. It was wrinkled from being cast aside but there were no signs of a struggle or blood stains. The findings gave Aiden hope and emboldened him to continue forward.
Aiden walked up the trail, scouting left, right and center for any additional signs of Ryan. He was about to call out for Ryan once again but thought better of it. Being enclosed in the darkness of the woods, Aiden feared signaling his presence, alerting Zoe or anyone else who cared to attack. Samantha remained close behind Aiden with a firm grip on the back of his belt loop.
The trail twisted to the right, digging deeper into the brush. Aiden tread by memory more than sight as the darkness closed in around them. His foot kicked something in the dirt. Aiden paused to assess the surprise. Whatever it was, it moved easily as if it wasn’t heavy. Another reason to be thankful… he hadn’t kicked a body. Aiden lowered himself to feel around at the ground.
A sneaker.
Aiden forced himself to turn on his cell phone’s flashlight app. Throwing caution to the wind wasn’t in Aiden’s nature. But it was too difficult to see what was around them at this point. Plus, if anybody had it out for them, the attack was going to come whether he had a light on or not.
Ryan’s sneaker.
There was no doubt in Aiden’s mind it belonged to Ryan. A few feet to the left sat the companion sneaker. It faced up the trail as if Ryan still stood inside the footwear as he gazed toward the heavy undergrowth. Aiden swallowed a lump and shined the light up the trail. The fragments of light skipped over waving ferns and shrubs lining the dirt path. He stood in an effort to extend the distance the light would reach. Ahead were a pair of shorts. Aiden knew they were Ryan’s before he processed what he had last seen his friend wearing at the gas station.
A creaking awoke Aiden to the fact that the forest had come back to life. For the first time since they had arrived at the park, Aiden heard crickets and other hidden creatures as they went about their nightly business. He wondered when the sounds had returned and how long he had been lost within his mind. Searching for Ryan.
Creaking.
It sounded like an old wooden ship scuffing against an ancient dock in the rolling tide. Creepy and rhythmic.
Creaking.
Aiden lifted the cell phone’s light above his head, scanning the trees. He didn’t find the source of the noise even though it echoed as if it were coming from above their heads. He maneuvered the light around the edge of a large tree which hung over the trail like a knotted scarecrow.
That’s when he saw it.
Aiden released a squirt of piss in his underwear. The surprise had been too much for him. And yet, he had expected it. So why would his body’s mechanics betray his mind?
Ryan.
Swaying from a large branch was the nude corpse of his friend Ryan.
Aiden struggled to avert his eyes but his need for answers compelled him to stare. Samantha gasped as she realized what he had found. She began to sob, turning away from the sight.
Aiden inched closer, aware of any motion on either side of him. Never taking his eyes off the body.
The creaking noise was caused by Ryan’s leather belt, grating against the branch as his dead form swung casually in the blackness. The belt hadn’t been fastened into a noose. Instead, it was a square knot of sorts. Aiden blinked and began to absorb what hung before him.
Ryan’s tongue protruded through his purple lips like a snake coming out from under a rock. On his chest and stomach, tons of scratches bled. There was a sticky puddle beneath his dangling friend.
Aiden noticed the scratches formed words. Sickly, misshapen words. He leaned closer to read them.
The First Cut is the deepest.
Blood binds us.
Slashing away loose ends.
Don’t cheat the flow.
I am your tourniquet.
Aiden turned and vomited. The spray splattered the earth and bounced along his shoes. He rested his hands on his knees and let loose with another upheaval. A gentle hand brushed along his back. As Aiden attempted to get his stomach under control, Samantha showed her support. He spat and listened to Samantha’s hushed tones.
“She’s playing for keeps. This has to end.”
Aiden brushed his mouth with the shoulder of his shirt. He nodded. “We must’ve just missed her. The wounds look fresh. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes.”
Samantha’s eyes were filled with tears but Aiden could see the tears were not of sadness.
They spoke of revenge.
Aiden hugged Samantha. He felt her body shake before giving in to his embrace.
They took solace in each other’s plight, gathering a second wind. A sense of purpose and strength. Aiden wished the night would end as quickly as it had fallen upon the group of friends. He held onto Samantha with all his might.
It felt as if they had been entwined for hours.
Chapter 21
Turner pointed across the street to the Fisher’s house, using his cuffed hands. It was an awkward gesture as he struggled to use one hand to point around the side of his torso. The officer standing above him squinted, following Turner’s finger. Turner told the cop about the boy in the upstairs window. He revealed the dead girl in his master bedroom belonged to his neighbors across the street.
The two offices exchanged nods, the taller officer spoke into the mic on his vest. The shorter officer walked across the street without uttering a word.
Turner stared ahead as if he was caught in a drunken stupor. The whole world and reality as he knew it took on a dream-like fog, the edges of his vision clouded over and spiraling.
The cop rang the doorbell. He waited a few seconds and then wrapped his knuckles so hard on the door that the sound echoed off the homes in the neighborhood.
Tommy appeared in the upstairs window. A darkened face in the blackness of the room.
Turner shouted across the street, informing the officer of the child in the window. The cop stepped backwards off the porch, glaring upstairs. When he found the boy peeking around the shade in the window, the officer called up to the boy asking him to come downstairs and open the door.
Tommy disappeared. The curtain wrinkled slowly back into place. A few moments later, the front door opened. Turner strained to see who had answered. The officer on the porch blocked his view. He glanced up at the officer who had stayed with him. The man ignored his attention, remaining focused on his partner across the street.
He listened as the officer’s voice came through the walkie talkie behind him. The cop indicated the boy had let him in to look around. When asked if the boy’s folks were home, Tommy had just shrugged. Turner thought it was an odd response. Apparently, the officer behind him believed it to be strange too, emitting a huff as if he couldn’t believe it.
The silence tore Turner’s soul from his chest. What was taking the officer so long to call back? How come Holden wasn’t charging across the lawn to rip Turner’s throat out? Why didn’t Holden or Samantha answer the door instead of Tommy? The questions swirled, demanding answers. His mind drifted back to Rebecca and Jordyn. Where could they be? Why hadn’t they answered their cell phones when he had called them? He could understand one of them not answering. But both of them? He felt nauseated that something could be terribly wrong with them. The room had been destroyed. Blood everywhere. A dead girl. And no sign of his loved ones. Visions of their bodies heaped up in some psycho’s basement made him retch in the grass.
The walkie talkie squelched. Turner jumped at the sudden static sound. He spun to implore the officer to turn up the volume or allow him to hear what he had to say. The officer in the Fisher’s house spoke in code. He used numbers which meant nothing to Turner. The officer who had stayed behind with him took a few steps away from Turner. He adjusted the volume on his walkie so that Turner couldn’t hear what was being said. At least, not from the cop across the street. Turner threw himself backwards on the grass, inching his way slowly along his numb arms, underneath his weight. He grunted against the strain of his labored motion. The officer shook his head at Turner, taking a few more steps away and lowering his voice further.
Turner gave up. He lie on his back in the dew-covered grass, staring at the heavens above. Again his life flashed before his eyes. Jail time and legal bills. His career ruined. His reputation sullied. And his beloved wife and daughter ripped apart by some crazy bastard who wasn’t caught by the police.
A face blocked his view of the night sky. The cop summoned him to try to stand up. He wanted to take Turner to the Fisher’s house. Turner’s stomach sank. The fear of Holden beating the shit out of him became a foregone conclusion. He allowed the officer to help him up to his feet. The taste of acid on the back of his tongue returned, threatening to double him over in a fit of vomiting. Turner swallowed it down and shuffled his feet, almost dragging them to slow their pace.
When they arrived at the doorstep, the shorter cop opened the front doo
r. He asked Turner to describe his wife. Baffled, Turner stumbled through a rough description of Rebecca. Before finishing, he asked the officer why he was asking for this type of information now. Shouldn’t he have asked for descriptions of Rebecca and Jordyn when he had arrived at the house. Turner began to argue about how useless the cops were. They should be out searching for his wife and daughter. And for the killer of...
Turner realized where he was, cutting off his sentence before spilling the beans about Leah in her family’s house.
Tommy.
Turner blinked several times to clear his vision. Tommy sat on the bottom step to the second floor. His pajamas looked too childish for a twelve-year-old. Some stupid cartoon characters across the chest of his shirt. Tommy sat in silence. He fiddled with his fingers in his lap. Never looking up at Turner or the officers inside his home.
It suddenly dawned on Turner that something was seriously wrong. Where was Holden? Samantha? How come Tommy was alone in the house at this hour of night?
The shorter officer had patiently allowed Turner’s tantrum to die down. He clutched Turner’s arm and led him a few paces through the foyer toward the kitchen. He whispered to Turner to prepare himself for what he was about to see. He indicated there were some dead bodies in the living room.
Turner gulped.
The officer asked Turner to help him identify the bodies in the living room. Turner glanced over his right shoulder in the direction of Tommy. The boy was hidden by the staircase and the wooden railing. Turner began shaking uncontrollably. He couldn’t believe he was going to see another dead person. All his life he had never witnessed a corpse. And, in one night, he’s gotten to see one and now some more.
The officer prompted Turner once more. He needed Turner to identify who he thought was there on the floor. The officer told him to take his time since it was critical they know who was present.
Turner swallowed an acidic lump and nodded.
