Companions in Ruin

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “But Rach, what if they try to—”

  “I said don’t worry. What did Granny Beulah always say about me?”

  Gina didn’t answer.

  “Come on now, what did she always say?”

  “That if anyone knew how to look out for herself, it was Rachel.”

  “Exactly. So just trust that I’ll take care of things.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Don’t I always? Now get some sleep.”

  Gina buried herself deeper into the sleeping bag, her head disappearing like a turtle into its shell. Rachel sat there, watching over her sister, until the girl’s breathing evened out and she started to snore softly. Then Rachel quietly crawled out of the tent and walked over to the fire.

  All the guys were still up, 6 of them in total. They varied in age from mid 20s to late 50s, but they were all healthy and strong. Probably why they have survived this long. Zeke fancied himself the leader, and for the most part the others were content to let him make all the hard decisions.

  Rachel took a seat on the ground next to Zeke. “We need to have a talk.”

  Zeke took a sip from a bottle of whiskey then held it out to Rachel. She shook her head but passed the bottle on to the one they called Cowboy to her right. “What can I for you, little lady?”

  “I just wanted you to know that I know what you boys are thinking, even if you’re not fully conscious of thinking it just yet.”

  “Really? And what would that be?”

  “Give me a break, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know how men’s minds work, I know about the urges, the need.”

  Everyone had fallen silent, Vic having paused with the whiskey bottle halfway to his mouth. Zeke looked at her for a moment, his eyes straying to her chest then back to her face. He coughed, licked his lips, and said, “You do, do you?”

  “More than you might realize. You see, when I was 13 I had this Uncle who—well, never mind. That isn’t relevant other than the fact that I made a vow then and there that I would never again allow a man to use me just to satisfy his need.”

  “That so?” Zeke said, and his eyes had gone dark, as if filling with storm clouds.

  “Yes, that’s so. I could have just got my sister and snuck off in the night, but the fact of the matter is that I need you guys. There’s safety in numbers, and you have guns, ammunition, and you all seem to know how to survive out in the woods. I don’t want to leave the group, and I think I’ve more than proven I can be a valuable member. You guys saw on the last hunt that I’m a great shot, better than any of you, and I’m not adverse to hard work. I’ll pull my own weight.”

  Zeke cleared his throat and shifted as if sitting on a rock. “Just what exactly are you getting at?”

  Rachel paused before answering, taking the time to look each man in the eye. “I want to make a deal.”

  ***

  Gina came awake to the sound of someone crawling into the tent. “Rachel?”

  “No, little girl, it ain’t Rachel.”

  “Zeke? What are you doing in here? Where’s my sister?”

  “Shh,” Zeke said as he unzipped the sleeping bag. “We’re going to have a little fun, that’s all.”

  “What? Get out of here right now.”

  But Zeke was on her, on top of her, his weight pinning her down. She tried to buck him off her, but he was too strong. She started to cry as his hand strayed down into her pants.

  “Rachel! Rachel, where are you?”

  Zeke’s free hand tangled in her hair and yanked hard, banging her head into the hard earth. “Listen girl, I’m getting what I came for whether you fight it or not. Don’t make much difference to me one way or the other, but it’ll be a lot easier on you if you just relax and let it happen.”

  ***

  Outside by the fire, Rachel shared a bottle of whiskey with the other five men who were waiting their turn and listened to her sister scream.

  If there was anyone who knew how to look out for herself, it was Rachel.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER

  Ethan sat outside at his favorite bistro, waiting for Roger to arrive for lunch, when his cell phone began to vibrate on the tabletop, indicating that he had a new text message. Assuming it would be Roger with some lame excuse for why he was late, Ethan flipped open his phone. But the text wasn't from Roger's number; the Caller ID identified it as an UNKNOWN NUMBER. With a slight frown, Ethan opened the text.

  HELLO. HOW R U?

  Wondering who the message was from—none of his friends had blocked numbers that would come up as UNKNOWN NUMBER—Ethan quickly texted back.

  DOIN FINE, WHO IS THIS?

  The answer was almost immediate, as if the texter had been anticipating the question.

  SOMEONE CLOSE 2 U.

  Ethan's frown deepened as his thumbs hovered over the keypad. His mind sifted through a mental Rolodex, looking for likely suspects. Could be Pam or Greg, or even his sister Julie. All three were pranksters by nature, and anyone could be the culprit. The question was, did he feel like playing along this afternoon?

  Deciding the answer was no, he snapped the phone closed and set it back on the table. He was too preoccupied to participate in some silly game, his thoughts focused on Roger and the conversation that would ensue when he finally arrived. It had been a week since he’d asked Roger to move in with him, and Roger had said he needed time to think it over. Just this morning he’d received the call; Roger had made a decision but wanted to tell him in person. Ethan wasn't sure if that was a good sign or bad.

  The fact that Roger was almost a half hour late for their lunch date certainly didn't bode well. If it was good news, surely he'd be in a rush to get here and share it. If it was bad news, might Roger want to dawdle, procrastinate, put off breaking his heart?

  The phone began vibrating again. Annoyed, but still hoping it might be a message from Roger, he snatched it up and read the new text.

  WHY R U IGNORING ME?

  The UNKNOWN NUMBER again. With a grunt of frustration, he responded.

  NOT IN THE MOOD FOR GAMES. TELL ME WHO THIS IS OR LEAVE ME ALONE.

  While he waited, he sipped at his now lukewarm latte. The sound of a car backfiring somewhere close by caused him to start, and he spilled his drink down the front of his shirt. "Damn it," he grumbled, grabbing his napkin and blotting at the stain. On the table, the phone vibrated again, actually moving across the surface as if anxious to have its message read.

  B MORE CAREFUL WITH THAT DRINK, UR MAKING A MESS OF URSELF.

  Ethan started again, this time knocking his cup completely off the table, spilling his latte all over his shoes. He stood up quickly, sending the metal chair clattering to the ground, looking all around; across the street, at the cars that drove by, at the other customers sitting outside, at the pedestrians that passed, at the windows of the nearby buildings. Whoever was sending him these texts could obviously see him, was watching him from somewhere close.

  SOMEONE CLOSE 2 U, the mystery texter had said. Whoever it was hadn't been lying.

  "Everything all right, sir?" a waiter who'd been cleaning off one of the other outside tables asked him.

  "Yes, just fine," Ethan said, righting the chair and taking his seat again. "There was a bee, got a little too close, I'm terribly allergic. Could I get another latte?"

  "Certainly," the waiter said, retrieving Ethan's now-empty cup from the ground, depositing it in the trash, and hurrying back inside.

  Ethan stared down at the phone still clutched in his hand. He was overreacting. Sure, it unsettled him to know he was being watched, but this was still more than likely just a prank. In fact, if he had to guess he'd say this whole When a Stranger Calls setup had Greg's fingerprints all over it. He took a deep breath and texted back.

  VOYEURISM, HUH? KIND OF PERVY.

  The response came quickly.

  I’VE BEEN WATCHING U 4 A WHILE.

  Ethan chuckled, this definitely felt more and more like Greg.

  HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE SHOW.
<
br />   He’d barely hit send when he got a reply.

  I HAVE, BUT WHY DIDN’T U WEAR THE BLUE SHIRT?

  Ethan was just about to text back, BECAUSE IT WAS TOO HEAVY ON A WARM DAY, when his fingers suddenly froze and he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up the way he’d read about in novels but never actually experienced in real life. How did the mystery texter know that this morning Ethan had originally put on his deep blue button-up before settling on the peach tee he now wore? He had actually stepped outside his apartment building in the blue shirt before deciding he would be too stuffy in it. He’d gone back inside to change. Had Greg been watching him since early morning?

  Impossible. Shortly after changing and leaving the house, Ethan had received a call from Greg that came up on the Caller ID as Greg’s home number, which originated far across town.

  So maybe it wasn’t Greg, and Julie was in college out of state. Pam? Possible, but why would she go to the lengths of following him around all day? None of it made much sense.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the waiter brought him a second latte. Ethan smiled distractedly at him and paid for the drink. Before he had time to take a sip, a new message arrived.

  WAITER’S CUTE, HOPE U GAVE HIM A BIG TIP.

  “I get it,” Ethan said aloud, causing some of the other patrons to glance his way. “You can see me. Well, can you see this?” Ethan stuck up the middle finger of his right hand and waved it around in the direction of the street. A table of elderly women gave him dirty looks then turned back to their salads.

  A new text came in almost immediately.

  THAT’S NOT VERY NICE OF U.

  At his wit’s end, Ethan responded, punching the small keys with so much force it was a wonder he didn’t crack his phone’s casing.

  I’VE HAD JUST ABOUT ENUFF OF YOUR BULLSHIT. WATCH ME ALL YOU WANT, I’M DONE INDULGIN YOU. I’M NOT ANSWERIN ANY MORE OF YOUR STUPID TEXTS.

  After hitting SEND, he waited, hoping the mystery texter would give up his little game. He didn’t have to wait very long.

  OH, U’LL KEEP ANSWERING MY TEXTS IF U DON’T WANT ANYTHING 2 HAPPEN 2 SWEET LIL’ ROGER.

  He reread the text a few times, his mouth went dry as if stuffed with cotton and the tips of his fingers felt numb. He had said he wasn’t going to answer any more texts, and he’d meant it, but he couldn’t ignore such a statement.

  WHAT DOES ROGER HAVE TO DO WITH THIS?

  A speedy reply.

  ROGER’S HERE WITH ME. UR GOING 2 DO EXACTLY WHAT I SAY OR HE MIGHT MEET WITH AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT.

  Stunned, as if he’d just been sucker punched in the gut, Ethan scanned his surroundings again. No one seemed to be paying him any attention at the moment, and while he spotted plenty of people in the vicinity with cell phones stuck to their ears like permanent attachments, he couldn’t see anyone texting. He turned back to his phone, which suddenly felt hot in his hand, and began a rapid-fire back-and-forth with the mystery texter.

  IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE? IF SO, I DON’T THINK IT’S VERY FUNNY.

  NO JOKE, MY FRIEND. UR SWEETIE IS RIGHT HERE NEXT 2 ME. U’VE NO IDEA JUST HOW STRONG DUCT TAPE IS.

  I THINK YOU’VE WATCHED THE SCREAM MOVIES A FEW TOO MANY TIMES.

  I WANT U TO GET UP AND HEAD TOWARD THE PUBLIC LIBRARY.

  I’M NOT GOIN ANYWHERE.

  U WILL, AND U WILL NOT ALERT THE AUTHORITIES, OR UR SWEETIE ROGER WILL SUFFER 4 IT.

  YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE THAT YOU HAVE ROGER? I’M NOT A FOOL.

  U DOUBT ME?

  I THINK YOU’RE A TOTAL CRACKPOT GETTIN A KICK OUTTA MESSIN WITH ME.

  FINE, WHY DON’T U CALL ROGER THEN? SEE WHAT’S HOLDING HIM UP?

  Ninety percent sure this was all just a practical joke of some kind but with that nagging ten percent tying his stomach in knots, he quickly dialed Roger’s cell phone number. Roger would answer, say he was stuck in traffic or had lost track of time, and everything would be—

  From close behind him, he heard the familiar strains of the George Michael song “Freedom,” one of Roger’s favorites and the ring tone of his phone. A smile blossoming on his face, Ethan turned around expecting to see Roger behind him. He must have somehow blocked his number and was just having a little fun.

  Only, Roger wasn’t there. No one was, and yet the song kept playing, somewhat muffled but definitely close. He stood slowly and walked toward the sound, honing in on it. It seemed to be coming from…that couldn’t be right…but yes, it came from a large trashcan just outside the bistro’s main entrance. Heedless of the stares he attracted, he dug through the refuse until he came up with a small black phone that he instantly recognized as Roger’s.

  He disconnected his own phone, silencing George Michael. What did this prove, if anything? Roger loved his phone, was rarely without it; he certainly wouldn’t have tossed it in the garbage, not even for a prank. Yet, this was Roger’s phone…wasn’t it? Ethan flipped it open and scrolled through the contacts, scanning the names of Roger’s friends and coworkers, and there was Ethan’s number.

  Ethan’s phone suddenly came to life in his left hand, thrumming with a new text, and the rapid fire began anew.

  NOW R U READY 2 LISTEN?

  WHAT ARE YOU PLAYIN AT YOU SONOFABITCH?

  TEMPER, TEMPER! GETTING UPSET WON’T HELP POOR ROGER.

  JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT.

  I ALREADY TOLD U, START WALKING WEST TOWARD THE PUBLIC LIBRARY.

  Ethan looked back toward the outside tables, at the patrons, all laughing and chatting and enjoying their meals. He could go up to one of them, or better yet, use his phone to call the police.

  But what if the mystery texter did have Roger? The phone in the trash certainly pointed toward that possibility, and the mystery texter had already proven that he could see everything Ethan did. Trying to alert someone could get Roger hurt.

  The phone vibrated again, startling him.

  BE A GOOD BOY AND DO AS UR TOLD. START WALKING. HALFWAY BETWEEN HERE AND THE LIBRARY IS A NARROW ALLEY THAT RUNS BEHIND THE KEEP IT CLEAN LAUNDROMAT. GO DOWN IT.

  With one last look toward his untouched second latte, which seemed to represent the rational world that he’d somehow stepped out of, Ethan turned and started walking.

  ***

  Six months later…

  Roger sat at an outside table, even though the weather was really much too cold for that sort of thing. It wasn’t snowing yet, but the forecast called for it, and his breath chugged out of his mouth in white puffs. He huddled over his coffee like a homeless man over a fire in a trash barrel. The patrons inside looked out at him as if he were mad, but the wait staff was used to him. He came by the bistro every day and sat at the same table.

  This was the bistro where he was supposed to have met Ethan, where he had planned to tell Ethan that, yes, he would move in with him, the place where their new life together was set to begin. Only, he had arrived late and found Ethan already gone. The staff confirmed Ethan had been there, at this very table, but then had begun to act very peculiar and walked off.

  No one had seen him since.

  He couldn’t help but feel responsible for Ethan’s disappearance. If only he hadn’t been late that day, but it really hadn’t been his fault. He’d been on his way when some asshole bumped into him from behind and snatched his cell phone out of the little holster attached to his belt. A police officer across the street had seen it and given chase, but the thief had gotten away, and Roger had been stuck giving a statement. Without his phone, and with a decided lack of payphones in the city in this cellular age, he’d had been unable to call to let Ethan know he’d be late.

  After initially finding Ethan gone from their meeting place, and away from his apartment, he had feared he’d blown it by making his lover wait a week for an answer. He’d concluded that Ethan had tired of the indecision and made the decision himself. Roger had been more than prepared to beg Ethan’s forgiveness and prove he wanted to be with him.

  Only, he never got the c
hance. Ethan never returned to his apartment, never went back to his job. His friends and family never heard a word from him. No activity was reported on his bank account or credit cards. He’d simply vanished. Authorities had no clues, although Roger had the sinking feeling he was a suspect at first. Before long Ethan’s missing person’s case got filed away with all the others that remained unsolved solved.

  He had tried his own investigation at first, asking questions of the bistro’s staff, talking with regular customers who had been there that day. Everyone said Ethan had been doing a lot of texting, talking to himself, digging through the garbage, and looking generally distraught. Unfortunately, he was no detective and had run face-first into a dead end.

  But Roger couldn’t let go. If they’d found Ethan’s body in an alley somewhere, beaten and lifeless, it would have been tragic, but he could have had closure and tried to move on. But this—the not knowing, the constant nagging questions, it was just too much. Ethan was gone, but he wasn’t gone. Which was why he kept returning to this bistro, this table, the last place he knew for sure Ethan had been, as if they could somehow be together across time.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the cell phone he’d bought to replace the stolen one started chirping from its holster. He plucked it out and saw it was a text from an UNKNOWN NUMBER. With a frown, he flipped open his phone and checked the message.

  HELLO. HOW R U?

  THE HOLY BOOGER NAPKIN

  Eileen was watching another one of her damn Church shows. Seemed like that was all she watched these days. This here one was her favorite, the old guy with the fake tan that made him look a little like he was mixed and a huge pompadour of silver hair that added at least three inches of height to him. He always wore expensive looking suits, off-white just like his teeth, and he had a tendency to go into fits where he’d start babbling gibberish. “Speaking in tongues” is what Eileen called it. A bunch of bullshit was Gerald’s take.