Just Like Hell

by Nate Southard

  Just Like Hell

  A Team-Building Exercise

  Miss Kenner and Me

  Senorita

  Work Pit Four

  Dillon couldn’t breathe. He tried, but the trunk was too hot, too close, and the air inside felt thick as molasses. Somebody had tied his hands behind his back, just like Randy’s. He lay crumpled on top of his lover, unable to see him in the blackness. When he had first regained consciousness, he had tried to ask Randy if he was all right, but there was something in his mouth, probably a sock like the one that had been used to gag Randy. So he listened for his boyfriend’s breathing instead, making sure it stayed even and strong. He seemed to be doing okay.

  So why couldn’t Dillon breathe?

  You’re panicking, he told himself. That’s all there is to it. Calm the fuck down and think!

  But when he tried, his mind would only tell him how much trouble he was in. Kevin and the others had found out somehow. They had learned his secret. But how? He had been so careful. Randy, too. They didn’t run in the same social circles, and they rarely even saw each other outside of their study sessions. As far as the rest of the school knew, Randy was only his algebra tutor, a burden he had been saddled with in order to maintain his eligibility for football.

  But Kevin had found out. Somehow Kevin had discovered their secret.

  And now it was over.

  The scholarships, the glory of being State Champion—over. Nobody would give a shit about Dillon Campbell, All-State running back. Now he was going to be that faggot who played ball.

  His blown reputation and evaporating scholarships were the least of his worries, though. Kevin and Slug and Toby—what did they have in mind? What were they going to do to him? To Randy?

  They had pulled him away from the party, the championship celebration at Patrick Jenkins’ house. They’d promised something special for him, claiming it was in the trunk of Kevin’s car. Dillon had followed, cautious, but trusting. He had outscored Kevin, the team’s best wide receiver, by only a few points throughout the season, so maybe this was a prank of some kind. Kevin had been his best friend since fifth grade, though, and Toby and Slug had been tight with him just as long. So Dillon thought they might have scored some coke or something, a little extra joy for the party. Instead, Kevin had popped open his trunk to reveal Randy, bound and beaten, and Dillon had realized they knew his secret a split second before either Slug or Toby hit him from behind.

  He wanted to think it was a prank, some bullshit way of telling him they were cool with it. The pain vibrating in his skull suggested otherwise, though. So did the blood he had seen on Randy’s face. Its scent hung thick and cloying in the trunk, mixing with the heady smell of sweat and exhaust.

  Oh God! If they don’t let us out soon, we’ll choke to death!

  He didn’t know how long they had been in the trunk, couldn’t tell how long the car had been moving. It felt like hours, but his terror made time slow to a malignant crawl. They might have gone only a few miles, continually looping back over country roads to throw his sense of direction off, or they might be in the next county by now. He had no clue.

  The car jounced, and suddenly the crackle of tires over gravel filled his ears. That didn’t tell him anything, though. The rural areas that stretched between the small towns of Southeast Indiana were full of such roads.

  The car slowed to a crawl, and then began to bounce up and down, back and forth. The road was rough, a complete wreck. A sense of realization filled his head. A wave of dread followed it.

  Kevin’s summer cabin.

  In the middle of nowhere.

  He jerked upward, ramming his shoulder against the trunk’s lid. Pain raced up his neck and down his arm, but the trunk remained shut tight. He tried again with similar results.

  The car creaked to a stop, and the engine coughed and sputtered into silence. Dillon felt Randy squirm beneath him, his movements rough and nervous. He tried to roll away, give Randy some room, but the trunk was just too small. Instead, he listened, straining to hear what was going on outside. The car doors opened and shut. Shoes scraped over gravel, and then what he guessed were knuckles rapped harshly against the trunk. He tried to comfort Randy, who only screamed through his sock again.

  A key slid into the lock, jiggled.

  The trunk flew open, the night air rushing in.

  He leaned forward, straining for oxygen, and a fist flashed out of the darkness, slamming into his nose. Cartilage crunched, and blood spouted from his nostrils. He moaned behind his gag.

  He looked at Randy through watery eyes and saw terror etched across his boyfriend’s face, saw his head whip back and forth, legs kicking. A squeal like a siren split the air. He wanted to do something, anything to comfort Randy, but the pain in his ruined nose and the blood dripping down his face prevented it.

  Hands grabbed his arms. Another wrapped in his hair and yanked. More hands grabbed his legs. He kicked at them, and the fist in his hair pulled, wrenching a scream out of him. The hands dragged him out of the trunk and let him drop to the gravel. Rocks scraped his face, his arms. The air outside was cooler than in the trunk though, and it felt good despite the stabbing pains in his shattered nose.

  “Thought you could keep it from us?” Kevin’s voice was bitter and accusatory in the darkness. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from. A booted foot slammed into his ribs, snapping two of them like kindling. Dillon shuddered as the pain coursed through his body, an electric current of blinding agony.

  “We’re a goddamn team!” Kevin said. His voice seemed to drone from behind a wall of static. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”

  The boot struck again, whipping into his injured ribs. He screamed through his gag and curled into a ball, desperate for protection.

  “Get him inside,” Kevin said, and the hands grabbed him again, two under each arm. They lifted him to his feet and shuffled him toward the cabin, walking him past a second car he recognized as Slug’s. He tried to look back at the car, catch a glimpse of Randy, but one of the hands slapped him across the back of the skull, sending a flash of pain through his cranium,

  “Eyes front, princess,” Slug said. The voice sounded cold, methodic. It came from his right. Toby held him on the left.

  Toby was shaking.

  It wasn’t much. It didn’t feel like the lineman was having a seizure or anything. Maybe Toby was just shivering, but he hoped that wasn’t the case. Maybe Toby was losing his nerve.

  The cabin loomed in front of him, two stories of logs and stone. Dead leaves crowded the small yard. He knew a shed filled with shovels and other tools stood around back. Past the shed was a forest, tall maples and oaks that covered the land, a maze of wood and leaves and shadow.

  Terror fell over him like a heavy shroud. There was no one else out here, no homes or families living right next door. If he could somehow break free, make a run for it, he would still have to dash down a trail that cut through more than two miles of forest before reaching Kevin’s closest neighbor. The gravel drive was almost half a mile long, and a left or right on the two lanes of unmarked blacktop that served as the nearest county road would still put him a mile or two from another house. He could pull it off, could manage it even with the broken ribs if he had to, but not Randy. Randy would fall behind, slow them both down. Kevin and the others would catch them before they lost sight of the cabin.

  He didn’t want to think about what Kevin might do then.

  Slug and Toby dragged him up the porch steps and through the front door. The cabin’s living room was huge, with a vaulted ceiling that reached all the way to the cabin’s roof. A stone fireplace sat on one wall, an iron poker and set of tongs propped against the wall beside it. On the living room’s far side, a small dini
ng nook opened up into the kitchen. An aging couch dominated the living room, a chipped and scratched coffee table sitting in front of it. He eyed the coffee table and a new jolt of fear raced through him. Two coils of rope lay there, along with a roll of silver duct tape.

  Things just kept getting worse.

  “Get a chair,” Slug told Toby, and Toby scurried to the dining nook. The shaking lineman dragged back two chairs, both of them made of solid, sturdy wood. They scraped and whined across the wooden floor as Toby set them next to the couch.

  Slug motioned to Dillon. “Sit.”

  He shook his head.

  Slug’s fist felt like a bowling ball colliding against his stomach. He doubled over and fell to his knees, the air whooshing from his lungs and his guts making a run for his mouth. He groaned through the dirty gag, and a fresh supply of tears appeared in his eyes. Slug scooped him off of the ground and shoved him into the chair. His wrists pinched against the chair’s back, his arms straining and aching for space.

  “Gimme the rope, Toby.”

  Toby tossed the rope to Slug, and Slug busied himself with wrapping it around Dillon’s chest and arms, looping it around and through the chair. The thick teen ran a length under the chair and tied Dillon’s legs together.

  Dillon stared into Slug’s eyes through it all, unsure of what to do but knowing he wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  As Slug finished up, the front door banged open and Kevin dragged Randy inside. Randy had a new bruise welling up under his eye, and his sobs sounded more like shrieks from beneath his gag. Tears flowed down his cheeks and snot bubbled from his nose, mixing with the blood that was beginning to dry there.

  Kevin was laughing.

  Dillon’s anger surged. He fought against his ropes, knowing full well how useless it would be but not giving a damn. Slug’s meaty fist slammed into the back of his head, and he fell still. He glared at Kevin.

  Kevin quit laughing, shoved Randy into Toby’s waiting arms. “Tie the little fucker up.”

  Toby nodded and got to work.

  Kevin grabbed his face, turned it to meet his own. Dillon saw a boiling rage in his former friend’s eyes. Kevin’s lips quivered. His jaw trembled.

  He had never seen Kevin so full of rage. More than anything that had happened so far, the look on Kevin’s face terrified him.

  And then Kevin spoke.

  “You have got a lot of fucking explaining to do.”

  Randy watched Kevin Fairfield lean in Dillon’s face, yelling, and he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry more than anything, wanted to fall into a fit of sobs and stay there until all this madness went away. He knew it wouldn’t help though, and somewhere deep down, he thought it might only make things worse. Randy Martin, president of the mathematics club and lifelong punching bag, knew these people liked to see you reduced to tears. They got off on it. So he bit back his emotions the best he could and watched the scene unfold.

  Kevin snarled at Dillon. “Seriously, man. You better start talking to me before I get really fucking pissed.”

  Kevin ripped the sock out of Dillon’s mouth, and Dillon gulped in a double lungfull of air. He coughed and gagged, his chest visibly hitching, and then took a slow breath and shook his head.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Kevin?”

  Kevin’s fist struck with a cobra’s quickness. Randy barely saw it move before it crashed into Dillon’s gut. Dillon wheezed, and Kevin took the opportunity to slap Randy’s lover across the face.

  “Don’t give me that,” Kevin said. His voice cracked with emotion, but Randy couldn’t tell if it was rage or something else. “I saw you. I saw the two of you three weeks ago. And the week after! Don’t even try to deny it, goddammit!”

  “Are you high?” Dillon asked.

  “Slug saw it first, or at least he saw something. He thought he had seen your car heading up to Mulvaney Ridge the week before, but it was on a Tuesday. He asked me who I thought you were dating, and I told him you weren’t seeing anybody. Besides, you had to have tutoring with the fucking Martin kid every Tuesday.

  “But then I got to thinking about it.”

  “Jesus,” Toby said from the corner. The big guy stood with Slug, taking turns either watching Kevin and Dillon or eyeballing the cabin’s hardwood floor.

  Dillon shook his head. “Kevin—”

  Kevin slapped a hand over Dillon’s mouth, his eyes flaring. “No. You had your chance, okay? Now, you stay quiet until I finish. You can try to explain afterward.”

  A brief gleam of anger coursed through Dillon’s eyes. Randy saw it and said a silent prayer. He wanted to escape, wanted to think Dillon could somehow get them out of this, but he also thought now was a bad time for his temper to explode. With both of them tied up and helpless, Dillon’s rage would only amuse Kevin or fuel the bastard’s cruelty. He didn’t want to see what else Kevin might do.

  Finally, the anger left Dillon’s eyes as he nodded to Kevin.

  “Good,” Kevin said. “You’d better know when to shut the fuck up.”

  Kevin sat down on the coffee table, his face only a few inches from Dillon’s. “I got to thinking about it, and I figured you had told Randy over there to take his algebra books and shove ‘em up his dickhole, figured you might be seeing some chick on the sly, banging her when you were supposed to be getting your learn on.

  “So what I did was, I hiked over to Mulvaney Ridge the next Tuesday, figured I’d catch you with your pants down, have a few laughs. Sure enough, here you come about twenty minutes later, creeping up with the lights off just like the rest of the world does when they’re taking a piece up to Mulvaney.

  “So I sit tight for a few minutes, right? I don’t want to get you right away; I want to get you in the act. I wanted to see the look on your goddamn face, man. I wanted to see it so bad.”

  Randy felt like screaming. Even with his throat still ragged from his previous futile attempts, he wanted to scream. Kevin had been there. He had been there three weeks ago, and it sounded like he had gone back since. Kevin had watched them. He knew everything.

  “I waited about five more minutes,” Kevin said. “Y’know, long enough for you to at least get it out. Then, I snuck up to your car. I was fuckin’ careful, too. You couldn’t have heard me if you had a hearing aid. I got right up to the back corner of the car, and I was just about to jump up and throw open the door and scare the ever-lovin’ piss outta you....”

  Kevin turned, his eyes piercing Randy’s own and holding them fast. The hate in them was unmistakable. The jock raised a single finger, pointing it at him like a prosecutor making his final arguments.

  “And then I saw you kissing him.”

  Randy looked to Dillon and saw tears running down his cheeks. He still refused to cry, but Dillon had let loose. He glanced to Toby and Slug, and saw them both staring at the ground. They didn’t appear to be enjoying the show.

  Kevin turned back to Dillon. “I couldn’t take it, man. The two of you just going at it like a couple of sixth graders at the Christmas Dance. Just locking those lips and swapping that spit. I had to get out of there. Jesus, man! How fucked up are you?”

  Dillon shook his head. “Kevin, man. Just—”

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Kevin continued. “I just couldn’t fucking believe it. You’re Dillon Campbell, man! We’ve known each other since we were kids! Hell, we beat up that little Martin piece of shit a time or two!”

  Dillon nodded. Randy couldn’t tell, but there might have been shame in his eyes.

  “There you were, though, sitting in your car with your tongue halfway down his throat. Jesus Christ! I mean, what the hell? This really fucked with my world, man. Really fucked with it hard.

  “And so I went back the next week.

  “I don’t know why, man. I swear to God, I got no idea. I mean, I didn’t let on that whole week. I just thought it might have been my imagination or something. But I went back, and there you were again. Shit. I don’t even know—”

  Kev
in reared back and punched Dillon square in the jaw. The force of the blow knocked Dillon and his chair backward, crashing to the floor. Randy saw Toby take a step forward, but Slug grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back. Kevin stooped and grabbed Dillon’s collar. He picked him up and slammed him, chair and all, back to the floor again.

  “You piece of shit! You disgusting piece of shit! I can’t even fucking look at you!” He shoved himself away from Dillon and stomped into the kitchen.

  “Pick him up!” Kevin called to Toby and Slug. They did as they were told.

  “Guys,” Dillon whispered. “He’s fucking lost his mind. You gotta let us out of here!”

  Slug smirked. “Don’t talk to me, you goddamn faggot. You don’t have the right.”

  Randy shook his head, wishing it would all go away. He just couldn’t take it. It was all too much, like every nightmare he’d ever had was real and crammed into the cabin with him.

  He heard noises from the kitchen: cabinet doors opening and closing, the rush of water from the tap, and the thick gulps of Kevin drinking. He heard a drawer open and shut, and then Kevin returned from the kitchen. He began to struggle as soon as he saw what the enraged football star brought with him.

  Kevin had a knife.

  It was a butcher knife, probably ten inches or longer, and its blade reflected the room’s light in a way that made Randy’s balls crawl up into his guts.

  Kevin sauntered around Dillon’s chair. He seemed playful now, a smile plastered across his severe face. He moved slowly, letting Dillon get a good look at the blade.

  “Jesus, Kevin!” Dillon said. “Seriously, man, what the fuck are you doing?”

  Kevin placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh. You worry too much, man. I’m just gonna cut you guys free. That’s all.”

  Randy shared a glance with Dillon. He saw the doubt in his lover’s eyes, and he felt it in his own heart, but what could they do?

  “Look,” Kevin said, “I’m sorry about a second ago. This is just a lot to process all at once, okay? Seriously, we’re good. Let’s just put a fucking end to this.”