by Smith, T. W.
“Listen, Hank—” Will began.
“Save it. I know you need a weapon. And I know that’s why you’re here.” He’d been drinking and his words were slurred, eyes glazed. “Bleeding heart liberal, all high-and-mighty about gun control until you need one, then you’re just another welfare mother, stealing from others.”
The candle’s glow illuminated the room. On the table beside it, a bottle of Wild Turkey stood more than half empty, next to an open jar of peanut butter, a worn Stephen Ambrose paperback, some fingernail clippers, and a tub of Vaseline. The bookshelves behind Hank were in complete disarray, volumes scattered, curios toppled and smashed. The floor was littered with dirty clothing, candy wrappers, and old pornographic magazines. As his eyes adjusted, Will lowered the pistol and turned off his flashlight.
“That’s good, Will. You’re learning fast.”
“Look, Hank. I didn’t know you were still here. I was—”
“Bullshit. You saw me leave. You’ve been watching me from the woods. I know because I’ve been watching you.”
Will said nothing.
“I wasn’t sure why you were watching my house, but when I saw that you were willing to spend the night out there, I figured there must be something in here you want really bad.”
Hank took a long draw off of his cigarette and exhaled blue smoke. There was a crash elsewhere in the house—beneath them, in the basement. Will jerked with the sound, his eyes returning to Hank for explanation.
“Guess we were too loud. I’m usually quiet around here. She must have heard us talking.”
A paralyzing iciness brushed Will’s skin and dread descended with palpable weight. He felt detached, plucked from the scenario like a discarded toy, his mind whirling in waters of confusion, grasping for Hank’s words as he would a life preserver—
She must have heard us talking.
—trying to decipher their meaning, every, single, syllable—
She… heard… us.
—clinging in an effort to stay afloat, conscious.
“Never mind her,” Hank continued. “She’ll be up soon enough.” His voice was less distant now, but hollow, as if captured in a bubble rising from the depths of a well. He grinned. “You look like you’re about to shit your pants, Will. Is that how you looked when my buddy in the woods nearly came across you?”
The bubble popped.
“How—”
“Night-vision,” Hank said, lifting the goggles from around his neck and tossing them on to the couch. “Infrared—you should try it—pretty handy. He’s been hanging in those woods for about a week. Guess he likes it there.”
A smaller wave of dizziness came and abated. Will was processing as fast as he could, forcing himself to stay grounded. Drifting was not allowed, especially with a gun pointing his way. But it was a lot of information, and there were gaps.
Am I trapped? Did he plan this all along?
“I got tired of waiting on you though, and I couldn’t let him just eat you up—so, I decided to speed things up a little by leaving.”
“You knew I was out there this whole time.”
“Yeah. No offense, Will, but you’re not exactly cut out for this kind of stuff.”
The noise from the basement was increasing—rabid snarls and crashes—and a clanking echo, like a pipe hitting a metal pole.
“So I led our little friend over to Nate’s and then watched you come in here—after you peed, that is. Thanks for doing that outside, by the way—my powder room’s a mess.” He grinned, crushing the cigarette out in a crusty saucer.
It was on the basement steps now, climbing—dragging behind what sounded like a heavy chain. Will remembered the basement door being boarded from the outside. Puzzle pieces were shifting, slipping into place.
“You burned Ruth and Nate’s house, didn’t you?” he asked.
Hank dismissed the comment with a wave. “No, that was Nate all the way. I rescued Ruth from him days ago, but when I went back to see about getting some grub, he came after me. Knocked the lantern clean out of my hand. It burned up really quick—hasn’t rained in a while, you notice? The kitchen went first, along with the pantry—go figure. I went looking for some bulk stuff in the garage—cereal, Gatorade, you know—all the while, Nate’s beating down doors in a burning house to get to me. I got out with nothing but a bad sunburn, and him after me. Guess you heard the shots.”
Will nodded.
“Yeah, you and the whole neighborhood. I put Nate down and, next thing I know, a hundred of them things are chasing after me. Can’t lead them back to my place, so I ran out in the woods to throw them off my trail. Didn’t come back until the following night. I was like you out there, only I was asleep in a tree. Not on the ground. Never on the ground.”
The door to the basement began to rattle, its knob twitching, and the groaning behind it more intense. Whatever was on the other side wanted out.
“Is that Ruth?” Will said.
Hank chuckled. “No, silly. That’s Betsy. Ruth’s in the kitchen.”
“But—” Will began, and stopped. His eyes returned to the kitchen, illuminated somewhat now from the candle. Again, he saw the open cabinets, the messy counter, the full sink, the tools, the cleaver, and the spoiled meat.
His mouth opened but words didn’t come.
Hank’s grin widened. “The trick is keeping you alive so the meat doesn’t rot. I’m not exactly happy having to settle for a skinny sissy-boy like you, but times are tough. Guess I’ll have to take what I can get.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am, Will. A man’s gotta eat. I kept Ruth alive for a few days, and then I gave what was left to Betsy. She’s not choosy.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe so, but I’m also the one with the gun. Now, I want you to take that belt off and put it around your arm, high up as you can get. Pull it nice and tight so you don’t bleed too much. I’ll cauterize it after with the blowtorch.”
Will stood there, dazed, hands raised as if being robbed. “No,” he said. “What if I won’t?”
“Then I’ll shoot you in the arm and we’ll do it anyway.”
He needed time to think, but there was none. He lowered his hands slow, going for his belt.
“Wait a minute,” Hank said. “First you need to empty your pockets.”
Will dug into his front and cargo pockets, removing the empty sandwich bag, the knife, the flashlight, and the screwdriver, tossing them to the floor with an audible thumps. The basement door responded by shaking harder. Betsy wanted out.
“Now, the belt.”
He needed something to bargain with, but what? Everything he’d brought was now on the floor with the rest of the trash, useless. He was nothing more than a piece of meat, waiting for slaughter.
He began removing his belt, avoiding Hank’s eyes and staring at the porno magazines on the floor. It had been a long time since he had undressed in front of another man—any man other than Frank. Slowly sliding a belt through its loops had once been a libido trigger for Frank—the arousal intensified with eye contact. Would Hank have a similar reaction? No, he didn’t think so—best to keep averting his gaze. Experience had taught him that men would stick their cocks into almost anything warm and wet, but eye contact meant something more, same with kissing.
Will, what are you doing? Brian asked.
He ignored the question. No—best not to look up just yet. Pique his interest; lure him in—like a spider. It was his only shot, and the performance must be perfect. Because that’s what this was—a performance for his life.
Yes, Will. But what if it doesn’t work?
Buzz off, Brian. This is my territory.
He undid the buckle, releasing the flaps and letting them hang. He let his hand linger at his crotch, adjusting himself slightly.
“What’s a matter, you got an itch?” Hank asked. “Better scratch it while you still have a hand to scratch it with.”
He kept his eyes down, submis
sive, as his hands went back to the belt.
“I know what you’re thinking, Will. My dick don’t get hard for your kind.”
But it does, doesn’t it, Hank? At least that’s what I’ve always suspected. My gaydar may be dormant—but it’s not dead. And what’s with all the porn? Those aren’t just girlie magazines I’m seeing down there, Hank. Sad. I almost feel sorry for you. You’ve been trapped all these years, caught like those animals you hunt, cornered into lies by whatever tradition or dogma has molded your poisoned little mind. But you need to realize—you’re free now. The only thing tethering you to that former life is locked up in the basement and—GOD, I wish she would quit rattling that door.
Hank shifted in his seat.
What’s the matter, Hank—a little more of you there now? Having trouble getting comfortable? Relax, I’m just a man undressing in front of you, and there is no one around to see, no one to judge—no one.
Will grasped the buckle and began pulling the belt through. He lifted his eyes and locked on Hank’s as he did so. Hank was staring hard at him, the sweat on his forehead glistening in the candlelight. He shifted in the chair again—reaching down to adjust his crotch, maintaining eye contact the whole time. “Of course, you’d love it if it did, wouldn’t you?” he said, derisively. “Nice big rod to polish, and then maybe you could sink that tight hole of yours down on it for a while?”
Will allowed a tiny smirk. “Polished rods and tight holes, Hank? Sounds to me like maybe your dick does its own thinking.” He finished removing the belt and released it to the floor.
Hank stood and Will could now see the bulge in his pants. “Nope,” he said, moving forward and picking up the belt. He held it out like a snake and pressed it into Will’s chest. He was close now, so close Will could smell his awful breath, feel it on his lips. “It has been a while though. Sometimes your imagination just runs. But I’m more hungry than I am horny.”
Will reached for Hank’s crotch and Hank did not stop him, not even a reflexive jerk. The gun was still in his hand, but pointed down and away. The basement door was shaking so hard in its frame that Will could feel its vibrations.
“Seems to me like you’ve got a healthy imagination,” Will said, stroking Hank through his jeans. “I always hoped you might swing my way with a beer or two. And I have to say I’m ready for it.”
Hank sucked breath in, eyes fluttering.
“Yes, sir, I bet that thick, hard cock, is just dripping with poison.” Will squeezed and Hank exhaled; his body was trembling. “You need to get it out, don’t you?”
He pushed away, head muddled with booze and lust. Will witnessed the battle playing out—mind saying no, but body responding yes, all the way. When Hank’s eyes regained focus, they returned to him. He raised the gun and spoke slow and clear, like a drunk feigning sobriety: “OK. I’m going to sit back down in that chair behind me and you’re going to suck me off. And if you so much as scrape my dick with your teeth, I’m going to blow your brains out. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” Will said, continuing with the subservient role-play. He knelt, undoing Hank’s own belt and pants, sliding them down to his ankles.
Hank’s erect penis bobbed in front of him like an odd, fleshy fishing pole. Will felt the dizziness again, the floor slanted beneath him as his head went light.
Is this really happening? Am I about to go down on an insane, racist murderer in a feeble attempt to save my own skin?
What choice is there, Will? said Brian. To survive, you—
SHUT THE FUCK UP, BRIAN!
His head cleared.
Hank waddled back a step and lowered himself into the plush chair, allowing the gun to rest on its wide arm.
Will dug deep, trying his best to look seductive. Hank stared back at him with no expression at all—only pointing to his crotch as if saying: Do your job.
Will crept forward on his knees, his hands scaling Hank’s legs and landing with a firm grip on his upper thighs. He offered Hank a final grin as he positioned himself, leaned in, opened his mouth…
…and blew out the candle.
He knew his best bet was to crawl toward the sound of the pounding door—not the fastest way to travel, but he would be low in case Hank took a blind shot. It was also the direction of the kitchen, and the meat cleaver. Hank cursed and two shots rang out in the dark. The bullets were way above him, but Will imagined he felt the breeze within inches as they passed. He continued moving, now feeling the cold kitchen tile beneath him. His left hand landed in something wet and squishy—
—and wriggling.
His first instinct was to fling it, cast any remnants from his fingers and wipe them on his clothes—but he resisted, knowing that time was (as Brian would say) of the essence. The thumping basement door was much louder now, to his immediate right. Will reached up in the blackness, his hand landing flat on the vibrating surface. He fumbled past the twitching knob, found the deadbolt and turned it. The noise stopped, as Will continued into the kitchen.
No other shots were fired. Hank muttered something about goddamn matches, and there was a crash, like a table overturned.
Will made it past the kitchen island to the far counter cabinets. He reached up for the meat cleaver, instead grabbing the slimy hunk of maggot-ridden—Ruth—meat.
Awww, Jesus.
Adrenaline subdued his urge to puke, and his hand scurried right, finding the cold blade of the cleaver. He clutched it to his chest and turned, sliding back down, low.
There was a bright flash from above the kitchen island, and a soft glow pulsed on the ceiling above. Hank had found the matches and re-lit the candle.
“Will, buddy, you fucked up,” he said, sounding drunk and angry—rejected. “I could have made this a lot more pleasant, maybe even kept you around for a while. But now—”
The basement door opened inward, its pale panels recessing into the darkness of the stairwell, and Hank was silenced with the long creak of rarely used hinges. Then was the sound of her shuffling feet as she scaled the final steps to the landing, the heavy chain clinking almost rhythmically behind her. Will was still, could not have moved even if he wanted to, clutching the cleaver so tight his fingers hurt. He could only see the silhouette of Betsy’s head and shoulders from behind as she emerged from the shadows. She was facing Hank—a dim silhouette, clothed in loosely draped fabric with large Medusa hair seeming to writhe in the flickering candlelight.
“Oh, Betsy, baby.” Will heard Hank say, the tone in his voice much changed. “Don’t be mad. I’m sorry. He didn’t mean anything to me. I’m just a man… with needs.”
Betsy hissed, moving in the direction of Hank’s voice, the slack chain dragging behind her like Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Past. When she sank from view, Will peeked around the island to reestablish sight. The chain was shackled to her neck and links continued to clink from the basement, thumping across the threshold as she left the kitchen. She was clad only in a nightgown, and there were dark stains at her shoulder from a wound that had long-stopped bleeding. Her feet were bare, and she had a slight limp, using her right arm to pull at the chain behind her.
She crossed into the den, moving toward Hank, who was standing there with his pants around his ankles—penis still erect, but pistol now hanging limply at his side.
“Honest, Babe. You’re the only one for me. Please, please don’t be mad.” Hank said, voice quavering, riddled with guilt.
Will had been erased from the scene entirely. He had gone from being Ned Beatty in Deliverance to the voyeur in Body Double—only he sensed what was playing out before him was anything but new. Similar role-play had occurred between these two before—before the world had shut down. Before Betsy had become a chained monster in the basement.
When she was a few feet shy of Hank, the chain clenched tight. She pulled at it but there was no give. She snarled, groping for Hank with such violent ferocity she collapsed to her knees, arms reaching full extent, head yanked back with each thrust.
�
��There, there,” Hank said, moving forward and attempting to stroke her tangled hair. “You know I would never leave you. You’re my girl.”
She snapped at his fingers, and Hank avoided her bites as he reached for her. He continued his placations, oblivious to their futility, eyes moist, voice calm: “Everything’s going to be all right, sweetie. Daddy’s here for you.”
He took another step, shuffling in the trousers at his feet. She took notice of this and calmed somewhat, focusing on the stiff flesh at Hank’s groin.
“That’s right,” Hank continued. “Daddy’s here and he’s going to make everything better. You know that, don’t you? Daddy has the magic touch. Always has… and he knows just what you need.”
Will was not sure he was hearing correctly. His view was partially obscured by Betsy, but he could see Hank above her. He was holding her head with both hands, almost caressing it.
“And you know what? I’m going to give it you. You’ve always been such a good girl. And you’re my girl. And you deserve it.”
Hank’s eyes locked in on Will’s. He flashed a grin revealing nothing short of pure madness. Again, he shuffled closer to Betsy, within her reach now, holding her head away as she groped for his bare legs.
Oh…my…God.
“That’s right,” Hank spoke, eyes never leaving Will’s. “Open that mouth for me. Open wide, and I’ll give it to you. Go ahead take it. Take it!” He raised his pelvis and pulled her head into his crotch, thrusting his cock into her hungry mouth.
Betsy bit.
Hank screamed. Whatever drunken, insanity-filled, fantasy this had been, it was ripped away as swiftly as his penis. He dropped the gun, clutching at his crotch and Betsy grabbed his arm, jerking him down to her. In a flash, Will saw Hank’s bloody, sexless groin as he crumbled, and then Betsy was on him.
Will fell back behind the kitchen island listening to Hank’s shouts. At first, he imagined he still heard a trace of Hank’s Daddy-voice mingling within, coaxing service from his good little girl. But the screams soon diminished, replaced by the sounds of Betsy feeding.
