Serpentine

by Napier, Barry

  “Another round?” Al asked, picking the horseshoes up from the pit.

  “Sure,” Wayne said. He took a sip from his can of beer and picked up the horseshoes on his end. “I can stay sober enough to destroy you one more time.”

  With the shoes picked up, they took their positions by their respective ends of the horseshoe pit. Wayne, having won the last round, went first. On his first throw, the horseshoe clipped the side of the post and lay in the sand beside it. Al instantly tossed the second one and it made that delightful clink sound as it wrapped the pole.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Al said, clapping.

  Wayne threw his next horseshoe, but without much interest. It landed in the sand in front of the pole, a few inches shy of scoring a point.

  “Do you remember those black vans we saw?” he asked out of nowhere.

  “Yeah,” Al said. “Did you ever find out what that was all about?”

  “No. But the vans are parked in front of a house down on Kerr Lane. Second one from the very end of the road.”

  “That’s a rental, right?”

  “Sort of. That’s the one that belongs to George Galworth. He rarely rents it out. It’s a nice little house.”

  “And the vans are there? Have they been there since we saw them?”

  “Yup.”

  “How long ago was that? Four days?”

  “Yeah,” Wayne said, taking a break to finish off his can of beer. “I saw them yesterday when I went down that way just riding around.”

  “Just riding around or trying to check out the pretty ladies on vacation?”

  Wayne shrugged. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

  “Those weren’t plain old vans, were they?” Al asked.

  “I didn’t stop and look,” Wayne said. “They’re parked really close to the house, and the yard has a slope to it. But no, they didn’t look like plain old vans. It looked almost like one of those newer FedEx vans, you know?”

  “Locals?”

  Wayne shook his head. “I don’t think so. They had Virginia license plates, but I’m pretty sure they were government plates.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I thought so, too.

  Al absently started taking his turn, tossing his horseshoes in lazy underhanded lobs. His mind, like Wayne’s, was elsewhere now. After he threw his second turn, he looked to the left, towards the woods that hid away Kerr Lane.

  “Probably just some guys from an environmental agency to check the water levels and crap,” Al said.

  “Maybe,” Wayne said. “But don’t you remember how fast they were going when they went through here?”

  Al nodded, gripping the third horseshoe in his hand, all but forgotten now.“I’m sure it’ll be in the paper or something,” he said.

  Wayne didn’t say anything. He set his empty can down by two others along the wooden planks that surrounded the post. He looked up to Wayne’s porch and thought he saw Kathy looking out at them through the kitchen window.

  He jumped a bit when a loud and unexpected clink filled the air. He looked down and saw that Al had tossed his third horseshoe and landed a ringer.

  “Lucky shot,” Wayne said.

  “Not lucky. The word you’re looking for is skilled.”

  They carried on with their game as the afternoon sun started to creep down towards the tree line. On occasion, they would look in the direction of Kerr Lane and get a certain thoughtful look in their eyes. It was a look that meant the same thing on all men, be it young mischievous boys or older retired men with nothing much to occupy their time.

  It was a look that spoke of a curiosity that would not be satisfied until at least a little bit of trouble had been stirred up.

  SIX

  Five days after the Evans family had unpacked most of their belongings and the U-Haul was unloaded, Joe walked down to the dock behind the house for the first time. While he had done his best to remain grouchy and overbearing, he had found it not worth the effort. Besides, after five days of staring at it through the windows of the house—especially when Mac and his mom were splashing in a raft around the dock—it started to itch at him. There was only so much temptation a fourteen-year-old boy could take.

  There was, of course, his mood to deal with. Several moments before he finally caved in and headed down to the water, he had been sitting at the kitchen table and looking through the window. Down on the lake, Mac and his mom were splashing lazily in the water.

  Joe was holding his iPhone, reading and re-reading a single message over and over: DEVILSGUT! TONIGHT! ALREADY GOT THE TIX, SUCKA!

  The text was from his best friend back home, a boy that neither of his parents cared for. They didn’t care for Ricky Marshall because he was sixteen and had gotten Joe into the thrash metal scene. Because of Ricky’s influence, Devilsgut was Joe’s favorite band. He had downloaded everything they had ever released and often walked around the house growling the lyrics to songs like “Blood Bath” and “Parasite Alley.” When they toured, though, it was usually on the stupid West Coast. They never came east.

  Except for now. They were playing New York City tomorrow night, in a venue that was less than half an hour away from Joe’s house.

  And here he was, stuck at this stupid lake with his stupid family. To Joe, it almost seemed like he wasn’t meant to enjoy this trip. Every time he talked himself into giving it a chance, something like this happened.

  Joe read the text message again and then set the phone on the table, screen-side down. He stared back out the window and watched as his mom playfully threatened to tip Mac’s raft over. The late morning sun sparkled in the water behind them. He could hear Mac’s gleeful squeals through the glass and the itch to get down there and at least try to have some fun grew stronger.

  With a thin smile, he shoved his pride aside and stood up from the table. He ran into the room that he and Mac shared and slid on a pair of swimming trunks. As he did, he could hear the soft hum of a synth noise filling the cabin. It sounded like wind coming from the far corner of the living room—the area his father had elected to set up his workspace. This was followed by a melody on his dad’s keyboard that he had been toying with all morning. Hearing that keyboard did Joe a world of good. Back in their home in New York, the sounds of his dad at play on his keyboard had often carried Joe into sleep.

  For some people, it was rain. For Joe, there was no better sound to fall asleep to than his father striking the keys and crafting a story with music. He was smiling again as he listened to his father’s music and tied the elastic strings of his swim trunks.

  “Dad,” he yelled out as he ran for the back door on the other side of the kitchen. “I’m going out with Mom and Mac!”

  “Have fun,” his dad called back. He spoke as if he had been programmed to do so. He had always been great about remaining attentive when he was behind the keyboard, but his voice was usually flat and emotionless when he spoke.

  Joe went out the back door, down the back porch steps and across the yard. He was still overwhelmed by the very presence of so much nature everywhere. Back home, he’d had to walk a few blocks to the nearest park just to get in a game of football with his friends. He couldn’t imagine living in a place where you could walk outside and have ample space to do whatever you wanted without the risk of getting hit by a taxi or a bus.

  It was nice, although he was hesitant to admit it—even to himself. He was pretty sure he would never be able to live in a place like this (hell, the two months they planned to stay here was pushing it), but he was quickly growing enamored with the forest.

  He made his way down the flagstone path that led to the dock. When he stepped on it, Mac and his mom looked up at him in surprise.

  “I’m glad you decided to join us,” his mom said. She was wearing her sunglasses, lifting them up above her eyebrows and squinting at him.

  “Yeah,” Mac said as she reclined on her circular float. “I didn’t think you were ever going to—”

 
Joe took two running strides along the dock and launched himself into the air. As he came down, he hugged his knees to his chest. He splashed down into the water with a perfect cannonball. He missed Mac’s float by less than a foot and he felt her splashing into the water beside him, the float having tipped over.

  He came up to find his mother giving him a scowl as Mac started angrily slapping at the water, trying to grab on to the edge of her float.

  “You turd,” she screamed as she pulled herself up. She sounded angry but it was apparent by the look on her face that she had enjoyed it.

  “At least turds float,” Joe said back as he swam a few feet away from the float. “Well, some do sink to the bottom. Like you, I guess.”

  Mac looked confused but was snickering at the topic of the current conversation.

  “Can we not talk like that, please?” Amy asked her children.

  Joe swam to the front of the dock and hung on to it. He was surprised at how refreshing and cool the water was. Yes, it did look muddy and discolored, especially around the wooden frame of the dock. But it wasn’t as bad as he had been expecting. He pushed himself away from the dock and swam over to where Mac was once again in her float.

  He began twirling the float around slowly, making her giggle. He looked over and saw a smile of approval and delight on his mother’s face. It was a look that he had fawned over ever since kindergarten when he’d brought home his first assignment with a big red check in the top corner. The smile within that look reminded Joe just how pretty his mom was.

  He thought briefly about the text message from Ricky Marshall and was surprised to find that most of the sting of it wasn’t there anymore.

  “How are you doing, Joe?” his mom asked from her float.

  “Good.”

  “No more brooding?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  She gave him that smile again and then reclined her head back, relaxing and letting the sun soak into her skin.

  Joe kept his eyes on her for a bit longer and tried to recall the last time he had seen his mother in a state where she had been able to relax. In the few months leading up to their trip to Clarkton Lake, he’d seen her angry and depressed far too often. To see her like this right now did him more good than he was able to understand.

  “Faster!”

  Joe snapped out of his thoughts at his sister’s demands to be spun faster in her float. Joe obliged, listening to her peals of laughter. Within seconds, he was laughing right along with her, the sun shining down and the lake glistening in little sparks of afternoon sunlight all around them.

  SEVEN

  Scott Miles pulled his black sedan in beside the pair of vans and killed the engine. He looked to the house in front of him before getting out. From where he was parked, he could see the front door. The house had no porch, but one of those quaint little archways covering the front door. This one was made of pine posts and an arching row of stone-colored bricks.

  The front door was closed but the doorknob was loose, hanging down slightly. This wasn’t something that could be seen from the road, especially considering the row of trees that separated the front yard from the dirt road behind him.

  Scott opened his door and stepped out. He approached the first black van and then the second. He performed a quick search of each one and found the exact same thing in each van. They were spotless and nearly featureless. There were no belongings in the glove compartment, not even a vehicle registration. In the back of each one there was a tiny cot-like stretcher. Twin straps hung from each one, hanging down away from the starch white sheet that covered the thin mattress.

  Scott turned away from the vans and made his way to the house. He walked along the sidewalk as if he belonged there, maybe someone that wanted to rent this quaint little lakeside cabin for a few weeks. He’d seen only one vehicle on the road since turning off from the main highway and onto the winding series of dirt tracks that spread through the forests around Clarkton Lake. There was no real risk of being seen. And even if he was spotted, all he had to do was flash the badge he carried in his front pocket.

  Scott was dressed in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, not in the usual suit and tie get-up the bureau usually had him wear on assignment. He had known from the start that this assignment was different, so he was letting himself enjoy the assignment as much as he could. Part of that included not having to wear the monkey suit.

  The bad thing about this assignment was that it dealt with something truly bizarre. This was not the usual murder investigation or some underhanded back-room drama to cover up. He could handle those things all day, and he could handle them well.

  But this was different…and therefore, he welcomed it.

  Scott came to the front door of the cabin. When he reached out to push it open with his left hand, his right hand went to his service pistol. He withdrew his Sig Sauer P220 and inched inside, pushing the door open. As it eased open, the top hinge shrieked slightly. He looked up and saw that the hinge had been popped out from the side of the door. Whoever had come in here had done so with tremendous force. From the looks of the door, a battering ram had not been used. It had been good old strength—probably a well-delivered kick that had popped the front door open like a tin can.

  He had been expecting to enter George Galworth’s house to instantly see signs of a slaughter. But as he walked inside the front door and into the foyer, he saw nothing of the sort. The house was clean and quite cool. The only thing that unsettled Scott was the staleness in the air and the sheer quiet of everything.

  He’d been told to expect the worst and that was exactly what he was waiting for as he took several steps across the foyer and into a short but wide hallway. A large den sat to his left, but he paid it no attention. Looking ahead, he saw the first signs of trouble.

  The hallway stopped at a T-intersection in front him. There, protruding from behind the wall on the right, was someone’s arm. The arm was dressed in a black sleeve, the hand wearing the type of glove that covered everything but the fingers. Scott saw that the fingers were permanently curled.

  He quietly approached the end of the hallway, his eyes still on that arm. When he came to the corner, he swept around it, holding his gun out at chest level.

  That’s when he saw the carnage he had been expecting.

  For starters, the arm he had seen was just that—an arm. It had been severed from its body, which was lying in a pool of dried blood a few feet away. Six other bodies lay strewn about around it. They were all dressed in black outfits that resembled SWAT gear. Military-grade automatic rifles were scattered along the floor, one of which looked as if it had been saturated in blood.

  A cloud of flies hovered over the bodies, up and down from the blood-drenched bodies and then into the air.

  Scott tried to look past the bodies and towards the room that sat a few feet in front of the bloodbath. As he looked that way, his eyes locked on the face of one of the dead men. His face was frozen in a state of terror, his eyes wide and his jaw set. Whatever had killed him had done it very quickly. Gauging from the look of the man, that death had come in the form of a severely traumatic wound to the chest and neck. His head was barely attached to the rest of his body.

  Scott had to take a moment to gather himself. It was by far the grisliest scene he had come across during his decade with the FBI. Even in the last three years, when he had been promoted to the hush-hush position of a “clean-up man,” he hadn’t seen anything this bad.

  Once he had his wits about him, he crept through the carnage as best he could. There was no way to avoid stepping in the blood and he almost had to literally jump over one of the corpses.

  Scott came to the room at the end of the hall, the doorway of which was partially blocked by the final mangled corpse. The blood from this body trailed out onto the floor of the bathroom beyond, mostly dried on the white tile.

  When he looked into the bathroom, it took Scott’s eyes a moment to understand what he was seeing.

 
; There was blood everywhere. It was on the walls, on the ceiling, splattered over the toilet, and covering all of the white porcelain of the tub. There was a body inside the tub, collapsed back against the far right corner where a few bottles of shampoo floated in water that looked like cherry Kool-Aid.

  This, Scott assumed, was George Galworth.

  The lower part of his face was dislodged from the rest. His jaw had been pulverized and hung down like hot taffy. The corners of his mouth had been torn and a few of his teeth looked like they had exploded from his gums. As Scoot took in the scene, he saw a fragment of one of these teeth standing out in the maroon coating along the tile floor.

  “My God,” Scott breathed.

  If there were any clues to be found in the bathroom, he wasn’t going to be able to find it in all of this blood. Besides…based on what he knew about what had happened here, it seemed clear to Scott that whatever had been resting in George’s body had come out.

  He also knew that there had been seven agents that had come to retrieve the thing that had been in George’s body. The seven massacred bodies behind him in George’s hallway told him that the mission had been a failure and there were no survivors.

  That, of course, left the obvious question: what exactly had killed these men and where was it now?

  Scott’s instructions had been clear. He was to find out why the team had not reported back and, if there were casualties and the specimen was missing, he was supposed to find it. His priorities were to capture it alive but, if that wasn’t possible, to kill it.

  Looking back to the seven dead agents behind him, Scott wasn’t sure that was going to be so easy.