Just Like Hell

by Nate Southard

  He heard a car door slam and an engine roar into life just as Slug crossed the threshold into the forest and started down the trail. He caught the sight of headlights cutting against the trees and moving down the drive, and then he focused all of his attention on the man below him.

  You and me, Slug, he thought. Time to get what you deserve.

  This is crazy.

  The thought kept repeating in Slug’s head, drowning out everything else. Crazy. There was no other way to describe the night. No other way to describe what he was doing. It was fucked up—insane—every last inch of it.

  He looked back to the edge of the forest and saw the grave he and Toby had dug less than an hour before. When he returned, he would have to help Kevin dig another hole for Toby. One for Dillon, as well.

  He wondered if Kevin would make him dig a fourth.

  He tightened his grip on the cleaver. The handle already felt slick and warm. So did the flashlight he held in his other hand. He must be sweating like a junior varsity player in the backseat with one of the cheerleaders. His breath was speeding up, too.

  He was freaking out.

  No shit, he thought. What did you expect?

  Get a grip, man.

  He rolled his massive shoulders and breathed deeply. Fuck it. Had he really expected all of this to end well? He’d known they weren’t bringing Dillon and the dork out here for cake and ice cream. So things had gotten out of hand. If he was stuck, he might as well get used to it. If Kevin saw him start to lose it, there was no telling what the crazy bastard might do. He wasn’t going to put anything past Kevin, not anymore.

  He aimed the flashlight’s beam down the trail. Slug didn’t know how long ago Dillon had escaped, how far he might have gotten. The running back could be more than a mile away by now, halfway to somebody’s kitchen and a call to the cops. No way was Slug going to catch the guy.

  But he had to try. He had an idea his life might depend on it.

  He broke into a jog, but only made it ten steps before something crashed in the woods to his left. Was it Dillon? Maybe it was Kevin, returning to clean up another part of the mess before moving on to the main event. No, that was crazy. Wasn’t it?

  He jumped as a branch cracked nearby. He whipped the flashlight in a circle around him, afraid the beam might reveal Kevin, a murderous grin that said it was time to clean up loose ends stretched across his face. There was nothing, though, only trees and leaves and darkness.

  He breathed deeply, trying to slow his pulse. If something was in the darkness closing in on him, the light was only going to act as a beacon, giving away his position. But he needed the light to see! No, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  He clicked off the flashlight, and the night closed around him. He was blind, the clouds and trees choking off any light the moon might provide.

  Had he heard the car returning? He should have been listening, dammit!

  The noise came from behind him, leaves crunching under running feet. Slug spun around, clicking the flashlight back on and expecting to find Kevin charging him, splattered with fresh blood and grinning like a maniac.

  But it wasn’t Kevin.

  The flashlight’s beam found Dillon less than ten feet away. It found the hatchet a split second later. Slug tried to process the information, but then the hatchet came down, cleaving through his ribs and burying itself deep in his lung. His breath rushed out, and he couldn’t even scream. The flashlight fell from his suddenly limp hand.

  He stared at Dillon with wide eyes. The running back’s face was an expressionless mask, barely covering the rage Slug saw in his eyes. He reached out, trying to grip Dillon’s shoulder. His chest felt cold, and the cold was beginning to spread.

  I’m sorry, he thought, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words.

  Dillon’s lip trembled the slightest bit, then he ripped the hatchet loose. Slug staggered backward, his hands leaping to the gaping wound in his chest. He looked down to see blood pour between his fingers.

  His vision grew blurry.

  With a tremendous effort, he raised his eyes to see Dillon step toward him. He held out a hand, trying to beg Dillon off, but his arm grew too heavy, and the hand fell to his side, useless.

  Dillon raised the hatchet again. Slug opened his mouth to scream, praying he would find the breath to do so, but then Dillon swung the hatchet at his head, and the world went black.

  Kevin kept his eyes peeled on the roadway ahead of him, the forest at its edges. If Dillon heard him coming, he’d probably try to duck into the woods and hide until the car rolled past. He didn’t plan on letting Dillon pull such a stunt, though. If he caught a glimpse of the guy, he’d be out of the car and running him down before the faggot could beg for forgiveness.

  “That’s right, Dillon. Show me where you are. Let’s settle this shit once and for all.” The muscles of his face drew into a scowl as he thought about his former friend making out with Randy. Disgusting. He’d teach Dillon a lesson, all right. Teach the faggot something he’d never forget.

  He slowed the car a little, rolled down the window. The cold air kissed his face. He listened to the sounds beyond the crackle of gravel beneath his tires, straining for anything that might be Dillon making a break for it. He wasn’t going to let the worthless fuck escape, no way no how. He had plans for Dillon, and he had a feeling he’d get a chance to see those plans through real soon.

  Dillon retrieved the axe from its hiding place and crept across the side yard. He heard the tires of Kevin’s car crunch along the driveway, pulling slowly but steadily away from the cabin. He still hadn’t seen Toby, though. Best to be careful in case the muscle-bound thug had learned some degree of stealth. He moved as quietly as possible, which wasn’t very quiet at all, seeing as he dragged Slug’s body behind him.

  Dillon slipped around the cabin and hopped onto the front porch, leaving the heavy corpse in the grass. He’d finish with Slug after he’d dealt with Toby. The lights were still on, so he ducked low, moving past the windows. Maybe he should try to crawl through one? No, if Toby caught him he’d be helpless.

  He nudged the front door open a crack and peered inside the cabin. All clear so far. If he could just get past Toby or take him out, he could get to the basement, a moldy concrete box where the washer and dryer were kept. He knew the rest of the space was full of exercise equipment and boxes of spare crap.

  And the fuse box.

  He rushed through the door as quietly as possible, only to stop short when he saw Toby’s body sprawled on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of cooling blood. He stared at the corpse for a moment, looking into the open eyes, before leaning down to close them with his fingers. A mournful sigh escaped him. It looked like Toby had tried to help after all.

  “Thanks,” he whispered, then left the room.

  He stayed low as he moved down the hall and pushed open the door at the end. Entering the room where he had recently been held captive, he grabbed the rope he had left on the floor. He bundled it up in his hands and crossed the hall, opening the door that led to the basement. The stairs were dark, but he knew the way. He bolted down and threw the switch at the bottom, bathing the basement in light.

  The fuse box hung on the wall next to the washer. Cobwebs hung from it in sheets. He ignored them as he opened the box and looked at the switches inside.

  He threw them all.

  The basement filled with blackness, as did the stairs and the hallway. The entire cabin had gone dark.

  Silent as a windless night, he slipped into the darkness. He had work to do before Kevin returned. Everything had to be just right. He’d have to hurry, however, because now he had an extra step to complete.

  Toby’s body had given him an idea.

  Kevin reached County Road 300 North and brought the car to a stop. He looked left, right. No sign of Dillon, not even a fucking clue. His fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles flaring white. His teeth ground together, louder than the idling engine.

  He should have taken t
he trail, told Slug to check the driveway. Dammit, if Dillon had gone through the woods, the fat fuck would never catch him.

  But what would Slug have done if he’d put him in a car, told him to drive? The pussy would have driven off and never returned, that’s what. The old saying was dead-fucking-on. If you wanted something done right....

  “Fuck!” He pounded his fist against the dashboard. What the hell was he going to do now? Should he drive up and down 300, looking for Dillon? Should he return to the cabin and try the trail?

  The blaring honk of a car horn ripped open the cold night and answered his question. As he listened, the horn cried out again, longer this time.

  “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. Slug must have caught up with Dillon, stopped him. The tubby fuck didn’t have the balls to signal for any other reason, not if he didn’t want to wind up with his ass in the ground. Nope, Slug had somehow captured Dillon. Great.

  A grin stretched Kevin’s lips wide. He stomped on the gas and piloted his car onto County Road 300 North, then spun it around and drove toward the cabin as fast as he could.

  Time to end this.

  Dillon heard the sound of tires squealing over asphalt and knew Kevin had heard him. Perfect. He didn’t grin or say a word. His nerves jangled with an angry energy, and he curled his hands into fists. He could barely wait to use them.

  The twin beams of Kevin’s headlights shined against the trees, and he returned to the cabin. When Kevin entered, he’d be ready. He didn’t doubt that for a second.

  Kevin had expected to find Slug waiting for him, but not like this. He’d figured the chunky thug would be standing with an unconscious Dillon crumpled at his feet, maybe holding the faggot in a crushing bear hug.

  Instead, Slug was stretched across the hood of his car, and Kevin didn’t even need to climb out of his own vehicle to know the guy was dead. There was a wound like a sinkhole in the big guy’s chest, and his shirt was sopping wet with blood. His head was worse, however. His mouth hung open, dirty teeth exposed. Both eyes stood open and vacant. The handle of a hatchet jutted from Slug’s skull like the flag in that picture from World War II.

  “Motherfucker.” Kevin thought there might be something better to say, but he didn’t give a flying fuck what it might be. Instead, he climbed out of his car without bothering to shut off the engine, only taking the time to snatch up the knife in a tight fist. He stood over the complete catastrophe that was Slug’s body.

  Dillon did this?

  It didn’t seem possible. Dillon hadn’t run away? What sense did that make? As far as Dillon knew, he was outnumbered three-to-one. Who would take that chance? Who in their right mind would do anything other than run?

  And the answers followed close behind the questions. Dillon wasn’t in his right mind. He was pissed off, thirsty for revenge. The queer didn’t care about the odds, and he probably didn’t give a shit whether he lived or died. He wanted to get even, and he wasn’t about to let something like certain-fucking-death get in the way.

  So where was Dillon? Where had the little faggot run off to now?

  He knew the answer as soon as he realized the cabin’s lights had been shut off.

  So this was it? Slug’s body and the dark cabin had been left as a trail of breadcrumbs, one that was supposed to scare the shit out of him. Well, too fucking bad. Kevin was a lot of things: a State Champion wide receiver, a bad motherfucker, and more than a bit of a complete bastard. He wasn’t a coward, though. No, sir.

  If Dillon waited in the cabin, he’d go in and get the bastard. But not through the front door. No, that would be just a little too expected. He’d do this on his own terms.

  Kevin looked down at the knife in his hand, admiring its blade for a moment, and then he crept around to the cabin’s rear.

  Dillon was ready, his eyes well adjusted to the darkness. He saw the cabin around him in blues and grays, nothing hiding from his sight. His fingers closed around the hammer, tightened. The axe was nearby, well hidden. He didn’t have to worry about Kevin finding it and gaining the upper hand.

  He didn’t have to worry about anything.

  Staying still was the hardest part. His muscles felt stiff, the victims of abuse and fatigue. At the same time, they surged with energy, a nervous electricity that charged every fiber of his body. His muscles wanted action, craved it. They practically begged him to move, to run and leap and hit and tear. His hands tensed; his skin itched. He rolled his shoulders, his neck, and the feeling abated the slightest bit.

  A door opened nearby.

  He held his breath and hefted the tiny objects in his other hand.

  Kevin took his time approaching the cabin’s back door, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. He wanted to be able to see perfectly. Otherwise, Dillon would have an advantage.

  Good. He wanted things Even Steven, the way a good rivalry should be. His entire life, he had been competing with Dillon, racing to rack up the most yards, the most touchdowns and the most scholarships. Until recently, Kevin had thought they would wind up fighting for the earliest draft pick and the best contract. One day, they might have even competed for their first Superbowl ring.

  But that wasn’t going to happen now. This was it, the final competition. The bitter fucking end.

  A smile filled his face like sunlight.

  He adjusted his grip on the knife. He checked the blade with his thumb and found it sharp as a knight’s sword.

  “Let’s do it,” he said. The smile on his face widened.

  He opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen. Pressing his back to the wall, he searched the cabin with his eyes. He could see the kitchen and dining nook. Nothing but furniture and appliances there. In the living room he saw nothing but the couch and the blood-soaked ruin that was Toby’s face and neck. No sign of Dillon.

  But that didn’t mean anything. Dillon could be hiding anywhere. He could be behind the couch or under the table. He could be hiding in the pantry, ready to spring out like one of those snakes in a can.

  “You think you’re scaring me?” he called out. “You’re sadly fucking mistaken, amigo!”

  His gaze whipped to the living room as he heard something skitter across the hardwood floor. He saw no movement, no sign of Dillon.

  “You throwing rocks, buddy? Is that your grand plan for freaking me out? Gimme a fucking break, dude!”

  He heard the sound again, only doubled. It reminded him of when he used to toss pebbles across the driveway to alleviate boredom.

  “Is that your plan, Dillon? You trying to scare me with rocks?”

  The sound came again.

  He crouched low and crept away from the wall. A shiver of tension rushed over him as he left the protection at his back. He stayed close to the ground and slipped to the couch. He moved around it and searched the floor with his hand. When his fingers brushed against something small and hard, he picked it up and examined it.

  It was the size of a pebble, but its shape was wrong. It was oddly square, and its surface was smooth and bone white except for one side, which was cracked and broken. He looked closer and saw something dark in the broken hollow of the stone. His eyes widened as he realized what he was holding.

  A tooth.

  He gasped, dropping the molar that could only be Toby’s. Dillon had knocked it out of Toby’s gums, had probably broken every last one of them free to use for his sick game.

  His stomach rolled.

  “You twisted fuck!” he yelled.

  He looked at Toby’s body. It lay before him, sprawled on the floor. He looked at the blood on his smooth throat.

  He squinted, thinking.

  But he had ripped Toby’s throat wide open.

  He saw the hammer in Toby’s hand.

  The body sat up in a single, smooth motion.

  Dillon threw the rest of Toby’s teeth at Kevin in a single handful. Kevin flung up his arm to shield his eyes, crying out in fear, and Dillon tackled him. Kevin tried to twist away, but he was too quick
.

  He pinned Kevin’s knife hand to the floor and slammed the hammer into it. Kevin screamed, the murderer’s fist flying open and sending the blade skittering across the floor.

  Kevin reached for it with his good hand, and Dillon slammed a fist into the killer’s ribs. Air whooshed out of Kevin’s lungs, leaving his body shuddering. Dillon raised the hammer over his head, ready to smash Kevin’s skull wide open, but the bastard managed to ram a knee up and into his groin.

  He doubled over and fell to the floor, the hammer slipping from his hands. Kevin scrambled away, hands searching, and Dillon leapt on his back, pounding with rights and lefts. Kevin cried out and swung an elbow back with jackhammer force, smashing it into his jaw.

  Dillon found his voice as he screeched with pain, but he didn’t let Kevin go. He grabbed the back of Kevin’s head, wrapping his fingers in the bastard’s hair, and slammed it into the floor, not even taking the time to appreciate the irony.

  Kevin groaned, blood pouring from his mouth.

  Dillon wanted to smile, but he didn’t have time. He tightened his grip on Kevin’s hair and bounced the killer’s face off the hardwood again. A third time. Kevin tried to push himself off of the floor, but Dillon punched him in the kidney. The murderer’s arms went limp.

  Kevin squirmed beneath him, moaning. Dillon leaned in close, putting his lips to his former friend’s ear, and whispered.

  “You earned this.”

  He yanked Kevin’s head back and crushed it against the floor, knocking the sick bastard unconscious.

  Rising to his feet, he crossed into the living room and overturned the couch, retrieved the rope he had stashed underneath it. He looked back at Kevin, then to the axe he had also hidden beneath the couch. A breath rattled out of him as he made a decision. Yes, he could do this.