Southern Ouroboros

by Matt Kilby

  “And Stucker?”

  “He can rot in the chair,” he dropped his eyes before they betrayed him. If the camera caught their cold focus, they would know he was lying. It took all his willpower to resist walking back, his teeth set so hard they ached. But he hid it well because his door slid open to show the living room he hated so long. Stepping inside, he realized it was now his only sanctuary.

  He went to the couch and sat, propping his head in his hands to sort his thoughts, but they moved too fast to follow. Letting Elaine die had been hard enough without knowing he caused her death. That was something he could never do, so didn’t it have to be a lie? If Grady knew things he shouldn’t and long before they happened, there had to be a rational explanation, but he was too tired to think. For now, he needed sleep, so he stumbled into the shower to turn the water shy of scalding. He washed off what he could of the day, at least the part that stained his skin red, hoping tomorrow took him back to the daily life and death that kept time passing steady. He wished for Pharaoh and the round room because it made sense. It was routine. Instead, his brief peace was interrupted by the hiss of his wall sliding open and shut. He got out of the shower, drying as he walked out to find Jim on his couch with his eyes on the television Joe thought broken.

  It was hard to separate the man from the memory of the things he’d done, but Ford and Jacobs expected him to give in. They wanted him to kill Jim so they could say they did him a favor. Instead, he went to his room and crawled into bed. Sleep came soon after his head found the pillow, even if Jim Stucker was a room away—a human sacrifice waiting for slaughter—or he was Sagin or Wolgiss or Jesus come back. He was tired and slept, leaving the rest to sort out in the morning.

  6

  The cowboy had to know Vick needed time to process the long, strange night, the only explanation for how one wrong turn after another led him across Creek Hollow and back. Vick didn’t complain but didn’t thank him either. That required words, and he ran out somewhere between watching his best friend shot in the head and finding out Joe Richards was somehow to blame. So he drove in silence, dividing his attention between the road and sky, dense gray clouds hinting snow though he swore he saw more beyond them—shadows of hands dragging him toward some unwilling destination. If he closed his eyes, they might steer the car wherever came next.

  Instead, he thought of Eric’s corpse in the back of the Charger and Pastor Marshall’s pale face as they put him in, either stifling vomit or trying to talk himself into calling the police. John didn’t pay him any attention until later in the kitchen, when the pastor’s trembling hand spilled his coffee. The cowboy stared then, and Carly stood, asking him and Vick into the hallway.

  “I want to stay,” she said, her eyes on John’s hard-set face.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re thinking of killing him, and I don’t want you to.”

  “You don’t know that,” he shook his head.

  “Then tell me what you are thinking.”

  He was quiet long enough Vick thought it his answer, but John surprised him with a huff.

  “He isn’t supposed to be alive, but there he is.”

  “Are you sure you just didn’t forget?” Vick asked.

  The cowboy’s scowl was enough, but he answered anyway. “There isn’t a chance.”

  “I believe him,” Carly added. “I doubt he forgets much.”

  “So what?” Vick asked John. “I’m not going to let you shoot a preacher in cold blood either, and I’m guessing you need us more than you don’t need him.”

  John was quiet again and then said with a firm nod, “Okay.”

  “That’s it?” Vick glanced to Carly, who seemed as surprised.

  “I don’t have time to argue,” John told him, “but even if I did, you’re right. The stone might not need him or her either, but it needs you.”

  “To go back in time and kill everyone I love?”

  “You make that sound simple, but you made hard choices, impossible ones to try to save them. You never failed to impress me, even when you lost your nerve and made Sagin pretend to be you.”

  “You mean Joe,” Vick said, his thoughts dark with the name. Even if the man was clueless when he gave him the stone, he couldn’t separate him from the thing that burned his hometown. Caused his father’s death. Put Suzanne in danger. As guilty as he felt about his part, nothing touched what sat on Joe’s shoulders.

  John shook his head. “I mean Sagin. You’ll learn the difference. Obsession changes a person. His need to keep things as they are will equal yours to change it.”

  “Why would he want that? He lost someone too.”

  “He’s lost more, but you both have a long future ahead. He’ll decide his is worth the sacrifices.”

  “But I won’t.”

  “You won’t.”

  Something in that told Vick Suzanne would die, though he didn’t move from where he stood. He stared into the cowboy’s face until John turned toward the living room and front door.

  “If you’re staying,” the cowboy told Carly, “I want you to keep Vick’s gun.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure what the stone will do. If he’s not supposed to live, I don’t want something to happen to you with him.”

  “That’s sweet and all,” Vick said, “but what if something happens to me?”

  “My guess is the universe would fold in half and all life end in an unheralded blink, but that’s just a theory. The easier answer is nothing because you’ll be with me. Give her your gun, and let’s be on our way. I have another friend to kill tonight, and I’m ready to be done.”

  Vick took the gun out of his pocket and handed it over.

  “You know how to use it?”

  “Aim and pull the trigger, right?”

  “If it comes to that, make sure the safety’s off.”

  He turned to follow John and found him in the open doorway, staring out at the night before he glanced over his shoulder at Carly.

  “If your problem shows up here, don’t fight. Leave the pastor if necessary, but make sure you get away.”

  “Problem?” Vick asked.

  “There are people looking for me—,” she started to explain.

  “Just promise you will,” John interrupted.

  “Okay,” she stared at the gun as if she would rather throw it into the yard. Whatever she feared didn’t change her mind as she lowered her hand and went back into the kitchen. With a nod, John walked out and Vick followed.

  After thirty minutes of a drive that should have taken ten, John directed him out of the back streets to the main road through town. He didn’t pretend to remember the way but instead named each turn in the same even voice. It turned out to be a straight shot from the church to the abandoned factory at the edge of Creek Hollow. Staring at the rusted sign near the top of the building, the big red O of the Orion logo now closer to brown, Vick sighed. He would have told him thirty minutes might as well have been thirty seconds if he expected him to get over Eric, but there was no point. The time was gone and John’s focus renewed, making Vick wonder if he stalled for himself.

  “Drive around back,” the cowboy said and Vick did, steering a circle around rotten picnic tables. At the edge of the building, a roll-up door yawned dark. Even fifty yards away, Vick swore the air inside was colder, seeping out like slow, creeping death. His foot touched the brake, but John pointed through the windshield.

  “There. Park inside.”

  “Inside.”

  “Unless you’d rather some policeman recognize your car.”

  “That didn’t matter at the church.”

  “You didn’t have a dead man in the trunk then.”

  Vick couldn’t argue his logic but didn’t feel better. He approached the door, his headlights unable to touch the void beyond until they were inside. Even then, the shadows of large abandoned machines held stubborn. The only real light lingered in his rearview, the moon bright through a break in the clouds. Silhouettes r
ose from the shadows to pull down the door.

  Vick followed John’s attention to a pair of legs in the headlights’ glow, approaching to illuminate the man’s waist and then his chest and arms. He was halfway to them before Vick saw his face, familiar at once though at first he couldn’t decide why. But even with his face covered in thick stubble, his hair dirty and clothes tattered, when he stopped at the Charger’s hood, Vick recognized Starks Prison’s last warden.

  George Carmichael looked at Vick as if their acquaintance was more than an occasional passing on a Pine Haven sidewalk. From his eyes, they could have been family—the kind who didn’t talk much and held grudges as long as life let them. His dad used to give the same look when Vick was on his way to screwing something up, hoping this time he learned his lesson. Vick glared back until George shifted his eyes to the passenger seat. Seeing John, his hard expression softened and hinted a smile.

  Someone knocked on Vick’s window, a man with a barcode tattoo on the side of his neck. He twirled one hand for Vick to roll down the window, covering his nose and mouth with the other. Vick understood as soon as he touched the button, the exhaust fumes roiling thick around the car.

  “Hey, hoss,” the man gagged. “You mind cutting that engine before you kill us all?”

  John nodded as he pulled the messenger bag’s strap across his shoulder and opened his door. Vick turned off the car, uncomfortable with the idea of being stuck until all the forces beyond his control—the immortal cowboy, possessed prison warden, or his hidden army—said he could leave. John left his door open, whispers rippling through the dark as camping lanterns lit the space around the car. In their light, Vick noticed the blacked-out windows that kept Creek Hollow from finding out anyone was inside.

  The warehouse had enough men to start their own town, though the factory floor reminded him more of barracks. Mattresses lined the wall to a plywood partition on the far side of the room. Near them, John and the warden had a whispered conversation, the rest watching Vick hard as if he was stupid enough to do more than get out and stand with his hands in his pockets. After a minute dragged on forever, the warden glanced at him with that same stern attention, which softened as he waved him over. Talking with him was the last thing Vick wanted, but John nodded in a way that felt more like a command than permission. So he went and stopped a couple feet away.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “That depends,” Vick shrugged. “Do you mean the piece of shit warden who turned the Starks prisoners loose or the psychologist who told him to?”

  “I don’t remember him starting this early,” George muttered.

  “He’s only known an hour,” John said. “I’m sure you took as long to adjust to the idea.”

  “Being beaten to death a few times a day made it hard to focus.”

  “Give him time, Sagin.”

  George nodded. “I trust you.”

  “You didn’t always. The way I remember, trust was the last thing you gave me.”

  “That takes time too,” George smiled. “Something I never thought I’d be happy to see gone.”

  “Too much wears a person down. I would look forward to death if I had a chance at one.”

  “I never envied you,” George shook his head.

  “I didn’t want your envy,” John said. “Your pity either.”

  “As far as I can tell, you never wanted anything.”

  “I wouldn’t mind some idea what this is for.”

  “If you don’t have one now, I doubt it’s coming.”

  “Me too,” John nodded.

  Vick couldn’t follow their conversation. He looked around at the other men, watching him as if waiting for some miracle. Several stood near the mattresses on one side of the room and others by the opposite wall. Some lingered at his car, the man with the barcode tattoo leaning on the driver’s door. Something about him didn’t sit right with Vick, but it was hard to pin down as the man spit and stepped away. He was sure he never met him and didn’t know anything about him beyond the questionable choices that led to living in an abandoned factory in the middle of nowhere. A prison sentence had to fit somewhere, the thought flaring Vick’s eyes as he realized why they were hiding. These men had burned Pine Haven, gunning down his friends and neighbors along the way. They were the fugitives of Starks Prison. Glancing at the warden, he felt like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner.

  “Something just fell into place for him,” George told John and nodded to Vick.

  “These are the missing prisoners,” Vick glared. “You let them kill innocent people and then hid with them like cowering rats.”

  “I did. I wish I didn’t have to, but this is what keeps the world turning. For that, I’ll stand here and let John shoot me, knowing this wound will never heal. I don’t hope for Heaven because Joe Richards is out there, holding a younger version of my soul. If darkness waits beyond the bullet, I’ll take it. Part of you understands that or we wouldn’t be here.”

  “No. I don’t and don’t want to. My dad and best friend are dead. I can’t have them back, but help me save Suzanne. Let us go home, and I’ll forget everything. You can keep your army of felons and massacre as many towns you need to keep the world from exploding or whatever bad day you think justifies all that innocent blood. You may both be powerful, but the best I can tell you’re also crazy. Forgive me if I don’t sign up for that.”

  “Vick,” George said.

  “What?”

  “If you only realized how much you are already you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  John’s shrug pissed him off more than the warden’s attempt to convince him anything he did headed toward something good.

  “If I drive away,” Vick said to them, “how would you stop me?”

  “How will you get through the door?” George asked.

  “Drive through if I need to. I bet the sound will bring the exact attention you’re trying to avoid.”

  “You think they’ll let you drive back to North Carolina?” George laughed. “You won’t reach the other side of the county before you become my new cellmate. Here or there doesn’t matter. Everything will end where it should. Accept that, if nothing else.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Vick turned toward his car. He didn’t think he would make it with a room of felons drooling to stick something sharp into him but was determined to try. Of course, if he did ram past the door with the Charger in any shape to drive, he had to find Suzanne before leaving Creek Hollow, which wouldn’t be any easier with these new assholes looking for him as hard as the police. Before he reached the car, a woman’s voice spoke behind him and he turned to look.

  “Vick?”

  “Shelley,” he said her name, his mouth too dry to speak louder than a whisper. He hadn’t seen Shelley Haywood since the day Pete’s corpse turned up in the shack behind the Hovington, the morning after they slept together. He remembered that mistake clear enough with the slight bulge in her middle. She was pregnant, and he didn’t need to think much about the timeline to realize the baby was his. The breath left his lungs and his feet fixed to the floor, making her come to him.

  “If you could see your face,” she smiled as if in victory, though Vick guessed it was in some way. His adult life had been a string of sexual mistakes, but he wasn’t so callous or cruel to abandon his child’s mother, even if she took advantage of him. Shelley had gotten him drunk when he was at his most vulnerable, but that didn’t change the fact he wanted her that moment in her kitchen and the ones that followed them to her bedroom. Maybe she trapped him, but he was willing. If he was meant to be a father, he would take his medicine.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Her smile slipped away. Maybe she thought he would be glad to find her alive, but the fact she was confirmed a suspicion he had since his talk with Judge Morgan. Somehow she was involved, even if she never lit a match.

  “Waiting.”

  “For me?”

  “No,” she put a hand to
her stomach with the patience of a mother answering a child. “For him.”

  “Him.” Vick wondered how she knew. He doubted they’d found an obstetrician among the fugitives.

  “Our son. The one I was promised.”

  “By who?” Vick scowled and nodded toward the warden. “Sagin? You sold our town. Our friends. Pete, of all people. So I would knock you up and have no choice but stay and help raise our kid?”

  She shook her head. “I knew I would only get one night with you, but I loved you so much that was enough.”

  “Love,” he huffed.

  “Yes. So much I let Pete die for it. So much I don’t care if this is the last time I see you, because I have something no one else will. Suzanne might have your heart, but this is something she’ll never feel.”

  “Shut up,” he growled. Her name brought back the urgency of finding her, though John made it clear he wouldn’t alive. Still, he should be trying instead of standing in a dusty factory, waiting for the cowboy to kill the warden. He thought of Eric and Suzanne—his father: how he failed each but stood there without trying to fix this mess. The least he could do was fight the forces determined to strip away what was left of his life.

  “I need to leave,” he told no one in particular, though they all appeared to hear. John and George looked his way, and the man with the tattoo came to find out what was happening. He stopped halfway with his hands on his hips.

  “Where would you go?” George asked, but Vick could tell by John’s stare he knew.

  “I told you,” the cowboy shook his head. “We don’t know where to find her.”

  “It will be too late when we do,” Vick said.

  “Suzanne,” George said as he understood. “The catalyst.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s the reason you’ll come back,” George approached, “the reason all this started. You lose her and can’t let go. You would banish millions of souls to nothing to give her a few more years alive.”

  “You’re the one who burned my town,” Vick said.