by Chris Pike
“Sure, I’ll help,” Chandler said. Rising from the table, he walked over to the sheet, reached up, and removed one of the tacks. Holding one end high, he stepped to the other side and removed the remaining tack. The room appeared just as he saw it earlier. A painter’s tarp was on the floor, and drop cloths covered the furniture. An empty bucket of paint sat to the side.
“I’ll help you fold that,” Eve said. She positioned herself so that Chandler had to put his back to the room being painted in order to face her.
Holding both ends high above his head, he walked it over to her. Eve sidestepped away from him.
Chandler said, “The paint job looks—”
The force of a shovel hitting his head stunned Chandler so much that he didn’t have time to react or to make a defensive move, reach for his Glock, or yell a warning to Amanda. He teetered on wobbly legs, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he thought of Amanda and how small and vulnerable she was, and how he wouldn’t be able to help her.
The sheet fell to the ground.
His last image was of Eve standing over him.
His last thought before he lost consciousness was he was going to kill Eve even if he had to do it with his bare hands.
* * *
“Mama, what do you want me to do with him?” A large man, fiftyish, probably around three hundred pounds, stood over Chandler. He set the shovel up against the wall.
Eve’s warm and grandmotherly facade switched off like a light switch. Her voice was condescending when she said, “What do you think, Bruno?”
“I don’t know, Mama.” Bruno picked at something in his scalp, looked at it, then flicked it away.
“For God’s sake get rid of him. And don’t leave the shovel in here. It’s dirty and I just cleaned this place.” Eve knelt down and went through Chandler’s pockets. She found the remaining silver dollars and some cash, then stripped him of his Glock and extra magazines. She patted him down, feeling for extra weapons. She found a knife in the front side pocket of his pants and tossed it aside.
“I could bash his head in right here,” Bruno offered.
“And get blood all over my floor and new paint? What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry, Mama. I wasn’t thinkin’.”
“As usual,” Eve said. “Walter! Come over here and you two drag this man outside. You can kill him however you see fit, then get rid of the body. The girl too. She’s got a gold pocket watch, so be sure to get that. Now that I think about it, throw Chandler in the shed and get the horse out of sight. We don’t want anyone nosing around here asking questions where we got the horse.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Chapter 11
A northerly wind had picked up, blowing leaves around. Amanda estimated it was mid-afternoon. She hurriedly walked to the pump house, thankful she had a full belly, and for once she wasn’t cold to the bone. With food being rationed, it had been a long time since she had finished a meal without still being hungry.
Chandler had been so wrong about this place, and once they were back on the road, she’d have a talk with him about trusting people. After finding his girlfriend in bed with his best friend, Amanda supposed he had a right to be distrusting. Things were different, times were different now, and he needed to get over it. Amanda wasn’t anything like his previous girlfriend. Hadn’t she proved that? Gradually, they had gotten to know each other, and Amanda liked what she had learned about him. He would be what her mother referred to as, “A good catch.”
She’d work on reeling in the prized fish later. For now, it was bath time.
She yawned, aware of just how weary and tired she was. A hot bath would be a luxury and she couldn’t wait to soak in the tub.
The pump house was a rectangular building about the size of a bedroom, with curtained windows on each side and cement steps leading to the door. Amanda opened the door and walked in, greeted with the aroma of scented candles and a full bath. She put her hand in the opaque water, bubbly with soap. Rising steam curled in the air.
Megan and Brandy sat on chairs placed to the side. Megan had her legs crossed and was tapping her right foot impatiently. They stopped talking when Amanda walked in.
“We’re ready for you,” Megan said. Rising, she went to the door, stuck her head out and waved.
Before she shut the door, an odd noise came from the main house, a clanging sound, then something akin to a piece of furniture being dropped.
“What was that?” Amanda asked.
Megan’s eyes darted to Brandy. She shook her head, an increment so small Amanda failed to see it. Megan dismissed Amanda’s question with a wave of her hand. She shut the door. “They’re painting or moving furniture, that’s all. Grandma said she needed to get the room ready for guests.”
Amanda accepted this explanation without question.
“You can put your clothes on the chair. We won’t look.”
While Megan and Brandy had their backs to Amanda, she disrobed and placed her clothes on the back of the chair. She tested the temperature of the water with a toe. It was hot, not too hot, rather just right for a bath. She slipped into the deep tub, scooting her feet to the end until the water covered her up to her décolletage. She acclimated quickly to the water.
The milky-looking water provided ample coverage for the modest guest, and soon the warm water and cozy atmosphere lulled Amanda into complacency, and to a place just short of sleep. She draped both her hands over the bathtub rim while the teenaged girls primped and lotioned her calloused hands.
“Ready for a shampoo?” Megan asked.
Amanda nodded.
“Scoot down a little more and get your hair wet.”
Amanda submerged her head underwater.”
In a low voice, Megan asked, “Are we ready yet?”
“No,” Brandy whispered. “Grandma said to wait for Bruno.”
Amanda lifted her head from under the water and Megan instructed Brandy to shampoo her hair. Strong fingers massaged Amanda’s scalp starting at the temples then working backward to the nape of her neck. Amanda rolled with the strokes.
“That feels nice,” Amanda commented.
“Time to rinse,” Brandy said.
Amanda closed her eyes and submerged again, working the shampoo out of her hair. Rising, she sat and blinked the water out of her eyes. Megan and Brandy flanked her on both sides of the bathtub and they were looking at her oddly.
“What’s going on?” Amanda asked.
“Nothing. We’re just going to leave you here for a—”
A scratch at the door caught everyone’s attention. Another scratch sounded, followed by a whimper.
“That’s Nipper,” Amanda said. “He wants in. Can you let him in?”
Megan opened the door a crack to let Nipper in. He padded into the small space, wagging his tail, sidled over to the tub, and dropped what looked like a chewed-on animal.
“Oh, Nipper! That’s so gross!” Amanda said, exasperated. “What kind of dead animal do you have this time?” She pinched her nose shut. “That smells!” She turned her attention to Megan and Brandy, who had stepped closer to Nipper. “I’m sorry. If you can hand me a towel, I’ll take that out of here.”
Brandy and Megan exchanged worried glances. Amanda’s eyes fell to the item Nipper had dragged in. It was nearly a foot long, slender at both ends. The skin was black and mottled and had five appendages that looked like…fingers.
“Is that a...you brought me a…is that a human hand?” Amanda’s gaze shifted from Megan to Brandy. “What kind of place is—”
With the speed of a striking snake, Megan rushed Amanda and pushed her head under the soapy water. Amanda only had time to close her mouth before she was violently pushed underwater. She struggled in the slippery tub and lashed out at Megan with her fists.
Water sloshed over the sides.
Nipper barked and growled.
Brandy grabbed one of Amanda’s flailing hands, trying to control her. Their matching strength made it difficult.
Amanda kicked and struggled and when her mouth breached the water, she took a gulp of air and opened her eyes to assess the situation. Brandy squeezed down hard on Amanda’s head and tried pushing her back under water. Using her legs like scissors, Amanda twisted her lower body, throwing it up and out of the water like a Phoenix rising. She clenched her legs around Brandy’s waist, and hooked her feet together at the ankles.
Brandy tumbled into the tub.
Soapy water spilled over the tub and onto the floor, making it slippery.
Nipper snapped and growled, biting at Megan’s ankle, darting like a mongoose attacking a cobra.
Megan still had a firm grip on Amanda’s hair. She kicked at Nipper and missed. He darted around until he latched onto her ankle, clamped hard, and bit with wild abandon, drawing blood through her jeans. He shook her leg like it was an animal he was trying to kill.
Megan, now distracted by her throbbing ankle, let go of Amanda. She hopped on one leg, trying to shake off the dog. She hit him with her fists, yet Nipper refused to relinquish his hold on her.
The muscled dog thrashed her leg back and forth, causing Megan to lose her balance. She fell over, hitting her head on the side of the porcelain tub. She landed with a thud on the concrete floor, momentarily stunned. She feebly tried to get up.
Nipper jumped on her and went for the neck, biting into the soft flesh, tearing at it. Blood gushed out, and Megan’s hands went to her neck.
With the weight off her head, Amanda flipped Brandy over onto her stomach, forcing her face down into the tub. Straddling her, Amanda clasped her arm around her neck. Taking her left hand, she held onto her right elbow, tightening the grasp.
Brandy fought and clawed, kicking furiously. Water got into her nose and mouth and she sputtered and coughed.
For several long minutes, Amanda held Brandy underwater until she fought no more and her hands fell listlessly to her sides.
Breathing hard, Amanda let go of Brandy and sat back in the tub. Adrenaline pulsed through her and she glanced around, afraid someone else might be coming after her. She was keenly aware of her vulnerability and her state of undress. She glanced at Megan, sprawled flat on the floor, her eyes open. A river of blood poured out of her neck and onto the concrete floor.
Stepping out of the tub, she quickly towel dried herself, threw on her jeans, shirt, socks, and boots. Opening the satchel, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her Glock 19 was still there.
Nipper stood over Megan’s lifeless body. He was panting hard and had a wild look in his eyes. Blood covered his snout and neck.
“Nipper, come here boy. Did they hurt you? Let me see.” Amanda let her hands roam over Nipper, feeling his legs and sides for any wounds. Finding none, she took a washcloth and dipped it in the tub. Using purposeful strokes, she cleaned the blood from his fur.
Nipper stood patiently while Amanda washed off the blood. When she was finished, he nosed the floor, sniffing all around. When he found the hand, he latched onto it and presented it to Amanda.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “No. It’s still gross. Drop it.”
Reluctantly, Nipper let the hand fall to the floor.
“Oh, no,” Amanda whispered. Her thoughts went to Chandler and how right he had been about this place. She should have listened to him. If he knew what was going on, he would have helped her by now. He must be in trouble.
“Nipper,” she said, “we have to help Chandler.”
Chapter 12
Chandler woke and blinked his eyes into focus. He was surprised he was still alive. A throbbing pain on the back of his head had roused him from sleep. Self-preservation guided him to be still and not move in case he was being watched.
With his muzzy head rapidly clearing, he assessed his situation, determining he was on a dirt floor in some kind of outdoor shed, possibly the one he’d seen earlier.
The shed was quite solid. The walls were made of two by twelves solidly nailed to each stud. The wooden door was two inches thick, secured by a stout, rusty chain. Without an axe, Chandler would have to wait for one of his captors to open the door.
He now understood the lack of interaction the two teenaged girls showed him meant they were part of the insidious plan and had known all along their time was limited. There was no telling how many wayward travelers had met an untimely demise at this evil place.
Amanda.
She had virtually no chance against the trap set for them.
Chandler realized how much he had come to know and respect her. She was a pistol. Quick witted, brave, and she had shown grit at her grandpa’s house when the man stormed the house. It took guts to kill a grown man with only evil on his mind. Chandler closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to the Almighty to keep her safe.
He was a man of quiet faith, who lived by an unwavering code of honor. He was a firm believer that the good guys would win and the bad guys would lose, although it didn’t mean there wouldn’t be casualties or injuries in the process of winning. Chandler wasn’t one to back away from overwhelming odds, and as of now, the odds weren’t stacked in his favor.
One way or the other, people were going to get hurt here or killed.
He gained an inner strength and fortitude after saying a prayer to the Almighty. It steeled him for what he knew was coming.
His hands were bound behind his back, and from the hard plastic cutting into his wrists, no doubt zip ties had been used. He had been gagged, and when he breathed out through his nose, dry dust blew around his face.
His lips were parched, and he became aware of his thirst.
It was dark and musty in the shed, and he got a whiff of an odd odor emanating from the floor. He sniffed, trying to place the smell. It was like smelling dried blood. Yes, that was it. People had been killed here, probably right where he was, and had bled out on the floor.
The only light source was a translucent piece of corrugated fiberglass placed near the center of the corrugated sheet metal roof. A redneck skylight, and a cheap one at that.
Now that he was coming to his senses, he realized he was cold and was missing his jacket. His belt had been removed, along with his Glock and extra magazines. Whoever had put him in here wouldn’t have left his Glock anywhere near him.
His eyes gradually acclimated to the darkness.
He stayed as still as possible.
Determining he was alone, he wiggled his hands until his fingers could reach the inside of his pants near the small of his back. He searched for the duct tape he had placed there before the trip started. He worked the duct tape until it loosened enough for him to locate the finger ring seatbelt cutter he had taped to his waistband. He was thankful he had taken the extra precaution before he left on the trip. Stretching his index finger, he wiggled it into place, and it was a simple matter to pull the cutter free of the tape and get to work.
The miniscule blade, similar to a gut hook portion of a skinning knife, pulled through the plastic zip ties as if they were made of butter. Shaking off the zip ties, Chandler massaged his hands and wrists to regain circulation. He ripped off the gag.
He stood and the throbbing in his head sounded like drums beating to the rhythm of a rock song. He leaned against a wall to steady himself. He touched his head and palpated his scalp, inspecting it.
He had a large knot on the back of his head. The blood had caked, so at least he wasn’t bleeding anymore.
He needed a weapon, and there had to be something of use in the shed. He spied buckets, jars, and personal items such as belts and shoes. Taking one of the belts, he looped it on. Digging around in a box, he found a pair of trousers, tossed those aside, then saw a jacket. Holding it up, he estimated it would fit. He shrugged it on, and when he did, he noticed an old number 10 can full of coins, jewelry, some paper money, and several wedding bands. He looked at it oddly.
“What kind of shithole is this?” Chandler’s expression was one of horror and utter disgust as he realized the scope of this operation.
&nb
sp; The old man and woman pretended to be harmless so they could kill unsuspecting travelers and strip them of anything valuable. The old man had been clever at not taking paper money, and Chandler had fallen for the ruse, hook, line, and sinker. Trading a hot meal and a bath for silver dollars? Who would have suspected two benevolent acting inn owners to be the caretakers of the devil’s playground?
Taking another look around the shed, he tossed aside several boxes filled with clothes and his hope shot up when he found an old Coleman fuel can without a top. Wedged in the corner of the shed, the can was filled to the brim with pocket knives. Not only were the owners of the Packsaddle Inn evil, they were also sloppy.
Obviously they had forgotten about the stash of knives.
Bad for them, good for Chandler.
A Kershaw similar to the one he had was on top of the pile. Chandler clipped it to his back pocket then selected six pocket knives with the longest blades he could find. Opening them, he carefully placed the handles of three knives between his fingers of each hand and made a tight fist. He swung up and fast, testing the viability of his new weapon. Hugh Jackman’s character Wolverine in the movie X-Men came to mind.
Heavy footsteps approached.
Chandler quickly positioned himself behind the door where he could melt into the dark shadows.
The door swung open and a large man, possibly topping three hundred pounds with a belly to match, stood there with a meat cleaver positioned high over his head. He shut the door and squinted in the darkness, searching for his prey. Like a cat toying with an injured mouse, he said, “Come to Papa.”
With lightening fast speed, Chandler jumped out from the shadows and shoved a fistful of knives into the man’s armpit, severing vital nerves and tendons.
The man stumbled back and the meat cleaver tumbled out of his hand.
