by Aaron Dries
The Beast thumped closer. Michael broke through the tree line and began running across the field. He saw something at the base of the hill. When he squinted his eyes, he saw threads of light in the dark. It was an old barbed wire fence dividing private property from council land. He pushed himself farther, every step an agony of its own. He was not quick enough.
Just a few feet from the fence, two sweaty hands grabbed his shoulders. One finger slid inside the wound from the Rottweiler’s bite. Michael screamed. His hands were outstretched, reaching for the hill, even as he started to fall. He landed on the ground and saw the sky. The clouds had dissipated and the dark was littered with stars. Within seconds The Beast blotted them out.
Its enormous hands wrapped around his throat. Michael used his left leg to push himself onto his side, throwing The Beast over with him. Michael concentrated hard on his right hand, felt its weight and funneled all of his hatred and fear into it. With a jolt so hard it almost dislocated his shoulder, he swung his arm upward. The clenched fist sailed through the air and smashed against Jack’s face. The crack echoed across the field. The Beast arched backward, head slamming against the grass. Two teeth fell from his mouth. Michael didn’t savor this small victory—instead he started shuffling towards the fence.
“Charles, that hurt, goddammit,” Jack yelled, his voice deformed.
Michael wondered for a moment why he was being called Charles—Jack did know his name. Or he had at least heard it said at some point. But of course, the man attacking him wasn’t Jack any more.
The Beast dragged himself up, shaking his head. He continued the chase, the hunt. Yes, he much preferred to think of it that way. His twisted ankle was almost forgotten about, even though he tore ligaments and ground bone with every leap; there was no pain in his clipped ear.
You’re doing it, you really are, Michael told himself when he reached the fence. You’re going to win this thing. He put his foot on the barbed wire. His weight pushed it into a crooked smile as he attempted to climb over. The fence post next to him snapped straight down the middle with a crack, termite-ridden splinters flying in every direction. He fell to the ground in a mess of wire and wood debris. The barbs latched to the left hem of his saturated jeans. He dragged wire along with him as he scrabbled up the incline. His fingers grabbed on to tufts of grass, the jagged rocks. He used the outcroppings as leverage against the slope. Gravity was the third contestant in his fight for life.
Jack reached the remains of the fence. He leaned over and grabbed the barbed wire in his hands. The barbs stabbed into his flesh as he pulled it towards him. His already scarred hands and Michael’s ankle tore open.
Jack climbed the wire instead of pulling it closer. You almost got him now, he thought, smiling like a jack-o-lantern. You’re gonna crush that disease until he’s dead. This isn’t about punishment any more. You’re gonna like it, man.
Flies swarmed around Jack. Their buzzing wings were music to his ears.
Michael’s hands were latched to a shard of rock embedded in the ground. As Jack landed on his victim’s legs, he used his weight to pull them both down the side of the incline, back to the remains of the fence. Michael held on to the rock; it slowly dislodged itself from the soil.
Billions of flies crawled over Jack’s body. They flew from his mouth when he screamed to dance in the air with the few remaining raindrops from the dying storm. His ankle twisted once more when he slipped on a rock. A cramp rocketed through his calf muscles.
Michael looked up the incline. Dirt fell into his eyes as the shoebox-sized rock purged from the earth. Slate beetles crawled over his face and one slipped inside his ear.
Michael kicked hard against Jack’s shoulder, pushing him farther down the slope. He would have skidded to the fence, but he latched on to the barbed wire still wrapped around Michael’s ankle. It cut his fingers to the bone. Jack’s eyes reflected the stars above like fireflies in a jar. Michael had slid a little, and now the rock was few inches from his extended fingers. He spat dirt from his mouth, wiping his face against grass, kicking in wild jerks to get The Beast off his leg.
At the top of the incline everything turned yellow.
A car passed by. Darkness swooped in again.
Jack grabbed Michael’s free ankle with his good hand. It was his left. Even through the blood and grime, the scars of discipline Jack’s father had given him could be seen.
A crow sent out a lonely call through the air from above.
Jack bit down on Michael’s Achilles tendon.
Michael felt the teeth snap through layers of skin.
Jack tasted salty-sweet blood.
Michael’s foot, tangled in wire, smashed down on the top of Jack’s head, and he used his attacker’s scalp like a ladder rung to stretch himself up those crucial few inches. His hand landed on the rock.
It was hard and cold.
He lifted it, the muscles in his arm crying for mercy. It fell against his chest. Michael rolled onto his side just as Jack grabbed his crotch, pulling at his jeans. Michael grabbed the rock, holding it tight. Don’t let go, please God, don’t let go.
The crow landed at the top of the slope, spread its wings and waited for one of them to become meat.
It was then that an old friend stopped by. Jack heard him whispering in his ear. That’s it, Jack-o. That’s it. Hey, you don’t have the scissors any more so you might just have to fuck him yourself. It wouldn’t be so bad, you know? You’re already hard. That’s half the work done right there, Jack-o.
He smiled, happy to know he wasn’t alone.
Michael used the rock to pull himself upright. There was no thought process. No emotion. What he was about to do felt right because it had to be right. He had to live.
He volleyed the rock in direct line.
Jack’s jaw tore away from his face in a blistering crunch of cracking bone. The rock hit the ground, the bone snapping in two underneath it. He fell down the slope, and the back of his head thumped against a piece of broken fence post. Termites crawled into the short stubble of his hair.
Michael pulled the rock into his arms. It slammed against his chest. His back screamed as he held its weight.
They were at the very bottom of the hill. Jack’s kicking legs faced the sky.
Stars.
It was all Jack could see. Then they were gone. The black shape towered over him. He didn’t see the rock coming.
There was only sudden darkness, where the lights of stars did not dare shine.
Four
A bulb switched on in the Frost home and a slice of light cut across the lawn. A silhouette moved past the living room window. The soft shhhh-shhhh-shhhh of its dragging feet could be heard from outside. Then all fell silent. It studied the landscape on the other side of the rain-speckled glass. It saw grass, the driveway and the monolithic form of the bus wrapped in blue nightfall. These things did not hold its attention. It focused on the dead trees near the veranda, at the fairy lights winking into life in its branches. It tilted its head and saw the Christmas cutouts. It was early November and yet it felt a chill. The silhouette looked up at the sky. The storm clouds were gone.
Something fell across Reggie’s vision in gentle, downward swirls.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, blinking.
It was snow.
She turned from the window and surveyed the living room. The tree was decorated with stars and tinsel. It was not the plastic tree she usually put out every year. It was a Fraser Fir. At its peak there was a crooked angel. At the tree’s widest girth hung the two plastic Santas, their faces no longer bent inwards. Their eyes were wide, donning eternal smiles from ear to ear.
Under the tree were presents in wrapping of every conceivable color.
She felt warmth flow over her face. It felt so good. Her soul felt light. Yes, she was happy. For the first time in many years, she felt good. The record player started upstairs, the vinyl crackling through the old speakers. It hissssssed.
The air was war
m. She could hear the sound of crackling wood. But we don’t have a fireplace, she thought.
She started when she heard laughing children. They seemed familiar. It was then that Liz and Jed ran into the room, slapping at each other with tennis rackets. They were young, their faces round and sunburnt. Their hands were covered in orange pulp. The children looked up at her, sheepish.
“We didn’t mean to make so much noise,” Jed said.
“It’s all right, honey. Why don’t you take your sister upstairs and wash yourselves good and clean. Okay?”
They nodded and ran, tagging each other all the way. Their feet thumped up the staircase. And they were gone.
Reggie rubbed her hands over her face. Her palms smelled of herbs and stock. That’s right, I was getting dinner ready, she remembered. As she crossed the room, she caught her reflection in the framed photographs on the walls. She was thinner than she had been in a long time, her hair pulled up in a loose-fitting bun.
The kitchen was full of food—lettuce, tomatoes, mashed potatoes and stalks of fresh broccoli. Sauces and gravy and honeyed carrots sat in individual bowls. There was a pile of festive paper napkins near a chopping board. They peeled away from the stack and flew into the air one by one. Reggie’s gaze shot to the opened kitchen door. She ran to it, the wind blowing her bangs across her vision. She grabbed the doorknob and forced it shut. Just before it closed she heard the sound of distant barking and rattling chains.
Stray maybe, she thought.
She turned to pick up the napkins but they were back in the pile. Wes stood next to the table, returning the last to its place. He looked up at her with kind eyes. Reggie smiled—he looked so handsome. Her husband was well built, broad-shouldered and tanned. She liked that he was balding. There was something masculine about it. It made her tingle, her heart flutter.
“Gee whiz that smells nice,” he said. “Is that the roast cooking?”
Reggie was caught off guard. She had to think. Then it dawned on her—yes, it was the roast chicken in the oven that he could smell. How could she forget?
A bell rang in the room.
She ran to the oven, opened it and reached inside. Without the use of mitts she took the tray and placed it on the chopping board. Juices pooled and sloshed. The aroma of white meat and rosemary filled her nostrils; she breathed it in and a shiver climbed her back. A small splash of liquid had spilled when she transferred the chicken to the table. She took a tea towel and bent down to wipe it up. When she threw the soiled towel into the sink, it was covered in rank blood. She did not notice.
Husband and wife embraced in their kitchen. Wes pushed his nose into her collar. “You smell great, hon.” He ran his huge hands over the small of her back. She arched her chest against his. A wave of ecstasy prickled her skin and made her dizzy.
“It’s just me, I’m not wearing anything,” she told him.
“You smell great, hon.”
Reggie cocked an ear, thinking, Didn’t he just say that? She dismissed it and kissed him. Their lips ground together. It had been a while since they had kissed like movie stars. It surprised her how easily they fell back into the rhythm, their tongues flickering together, tentative at first and then bold. She felt his hardness against her legs and was thrilled.
Thumping from upstairs.
“Hold your horses, Wes, the kids are coming.”
They drew apart.
Looking at him, Reggie realized just how much she loved her husband, despite his anger, his flaws. On nights like this when everything was perfect and he touched her like he used to, she could forgive him for anything he did to her or their children.
Jed and Liz ran into the kitchen, panting. They were clean, as were their clothes. “Why don’t we open a present or two while we’re waiting for the chicken to cool,” Wes said, turning to Reggie for affirmation. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Yeah of course!” She laughed for a moment and then stopped. Had he just asked her in an accent? Reggie was positive he had. A thick, midday television, American accent. She shook her head, feeling stupid. You’re losin’ it, Reg, she told herself, chuckling again.
They all went to the living room and kneeled before the tree and each took a present.
The record continued from upstairs, only it was playing at half speed. The words were drawn out and pained.
Reggie watched Jed open his gift. He tore the red cellophane away. She felt his expectation and smiled with him. Revealed was a small, hardcover book on eagle breeds. It had been her husband’s idea to get it. Jed loved it, flickering through the pages and coming to a double-page spread, an eagle’s wings stretching from left to right. It was a beautiful illustration, very detailed.
“You must have behaved yourself this year, Jed,” she told her son. “Santa’s been good to you.”
“Yeah, I reckon so,” he replied, holding the book to his chest.
Liz sat before the tree, its needles in her hair. She opened a shoebox-sized gift. Reggie watched her face light up when she saw her present. Part of the joy of being a parent is to live for and through the happiness of your child, this she knew.
The box was empty.
“Oh I love it,” Liz squealed, holding the nothingness to her underdeveloped breasts. “Thanks so much, Mom, Dad.”
Wes kissed her. “Don’t thank us, thank Santa.”
“Oh yeah.” She winked at them. “That’s right.”
Liz stood and hugged her mother. “Gee, girl. God’s stretching you like taffy. I’m going to have to put a brick on your head just to slow you down.” Reggie ruffled her bangs. They laughed. “Let’s go eat, what do you think?”
Wes, Reggie, Liz and Jed sat at the kitchen table. Wes cut the bird open with her sewing scissors. The rib cage snapped open with each brutal clench. The meat was bright red, dripping juices.
“Smells awesome, Mom, seriously it does,” Liz told her.
“Thanks, Liz.”
They helped themselves to the food. They ate in silence, with only the sound of clinking forks and scraping plates. After a few minutes the back door started to rattle in the wind, and then it blew open with a bang.
Reggie ran to it and looked out into the backyard. Snow covered the grass and the trees behind the yard. Bound to the clothesline on a thick chain was a large Rottweiler. Its eyes glowed in the dark, its mouth wide and dripping foam.
From behind her she heard Wes talking to Liz. Only his voice was slow and grating, just like the record player. “You’re nothing but skin and bone,” he said. “I’vvveeee ssseeeennn ssscccaaarrreecccrooowwwss wwwiiithhh mmoorrreee ssstuuffiinggg.”
Reggie threw her weight against the door but the wind blew harder. She squinted as she looked back into the yard. Beyond the dog, on the ground near the trees, there was a young man, a stranger on his side facing the house.
Another gust of wind drove into her face. Gasping, Reggie looked down at her feet.
“I’m not wearing any shoes,” she said out loud. She could have sworn she had been. Reggie was also surprised to see that she was wearing a thin, floral dress. Her apron was gone. She could see her bulbous knees, the beginnings of her cellulite-dimpled thighs.
The dog’s barking grew more vicious.
She looked up. The young man lying down in the grass was gone. And so was the snow. It was so very dark outside.
The wind died. Her hair fell about her face, lifeless and spent.
Reggie turned around. She felt heavier. There were pains in her body that had not been there moments before. It was as though the wind had disappeared and taken with it all the warmth from her bones and from the room.
The kitchen was empty, food scraps on the table.
A noise escaped from the living room. Her heart skipped a beat.
Holding a hand to her chest, Reggie crossed the kitchen. As she walked the wallpaper began to peel in thin, curling fingers. Her shadow grew long behind her. She absently nudged an uncooked chicken with her foot. It slid across the linoleum with a
sick sound.
She entered the living room. Above her, blind moths beat at the exposed bulb, burning themselves alive out of love for light. An ochre glow blanketed the room. It was the color of cigarette stains and tea bags. Reggie looked at the Christmas tree. The branches had dwindled and died, a large pile of needles scattered over the floor.
Reggie felt life bleeding out of her. She looked for the photos on the walls and saw that they were gone, shattered and destroyed on the stairs.
“What’s happening?” she asked the room. “Where’d you all go?”
On the carpet at her feet the two Santa ornaments looked up at her. Their faces were bent inwards again.
She heard the noise again. A quiet scratching from somewhere.
Reggie looked up. Her eyes scanned the room for movement. She felt hollowed out when she saw that the tree was gone. Where it had stood there was only the remains of the reading lamp and dust balls.
The room was alive with the frenetic shadows of the moths.
She saw the window facing the front yard.
And saw the face staring in at her.
Rabid eyes looked out from behind twisted locks of hair. Its mouth was open and its tongue lolled out like a wet, blue steak. The face was streaked with blood and brains and strips of flesh that dangled from its chin.
Reggie screamed.
The creature in the window screamed too, a high-pitched mewling—in its cry one heard tortured cats.
Terrified, Reggie turned to run and saw it turn too. Then she saw what was in its back, sticking out from between its shoulder blades at a ninety-degree angle.
A carving knife.
A bolt of pain like nothing she had ever experienced before, both blunt and sharp and hot and cold, exploded in her back. Reggie reached her arms around her sides until her fingers brushed up against something hard. Like a dog chasing its tail she spun and saw only the kitchen door.
And the long river of blood that stopped at her feet.
