Redneck Eldritch

by Nathan Shumate

Why hadn’t he kept in shape?

  Shut up, Carlin. Think. You’re big enough. They’ll come through ready for violence, but the others might not be prepared. If you can take them out fast, you might stand a chance.

  His eyes cast about and stopped on a metal trash can. He quickly eased the bag out of it and onto the floor, then took up a position by the door, the can held up like a rock.

  Carlin, you aren’t just a hedge fund manager. You are a goddamned monster. You are the product of generations of breeding. Your ancestors conquered swaths of Europe. Embrace that. Let out your inner barbarian.

  The door swung out and the barbarian surged, the fear a living thing inside him, giving him strength as he smashed the can down on the head of the tall one and driving him into the stocky one. A hooked knife glittered as it bounced clear, but it scattered under the stall, and the conqueror in him told him that the only thing he had was initiative. Going for the knife would mean death.

  He charged out of the bathroom, hitting the first hick he saw low in the belly with one shoulder, just like when the frat had played football in the yard. He managed to take the guy off his feet and barreled them both back into another one. Carlin and the stumbling hicks drove out of that hall and into the diner proper.

  The plaster-faced waitress screamed and her hillbillies cried out, but Carlin managed to throw them back into the others, then cut left and out the door.

  The Escalade was no help. No time for his jacket. Cars only passed on the road once every few minutes. His first job was to escape.

  He cut right, throwing himself into the woods.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, Carlin crouched in a bush, watching the road. No movement. His headache had eased off, and all he needed to do was not be spotted by the locals before a car came along. Simple. He was well hidden. Uncomfortable as hell, but that was a small price to pay for surviving.

  They were trying to kill him. Just like in all those stupid movies. Who would have believed that? Evil, full-on black-magic-practicing yokels in the woods. They’d never believe him at the microbrewery.

  Just relax. Be calm, Carlin. You can get out of this. Just hitch a ride. You are a well-groomed, fashionable man, poorly dressed for the weather. You look exactly like someone who would offer a large reward. Flag someone down. Get to the nearest law enforcement facility.

  He shivered and things moved in the underbrush beneath him, heard but unseen. The sunlight shone beautifully through the trees, falling in pools of green and gold on leaves and flowers. Diffuse swarms of insects gleamed over the road itself. He waited and his legs cramped and he prayed for the sound of a car engine.

  That very sound rose in the distance. Carlin leapt to his feet and charged out into the pavement just as an old, beat-up truck came around the bend of the treeless cut of a road.

  Carlin waved his arms in the air, trying to make eye contact with the driver. The truck didn’t slow, and as it grew closer, the engine roared in sudden rage.

  Oh shit, oh shit! Carlin threw himself out of the way, the truck passing so close that the wind gave him lift as he flew into the woods. He landed in a hard roll but he’d been the youngest of four brothers. This wasn’t the first time he’d been thrown down a hill.

  “I see him!” a voice called behind him.

  He turned to see a fashion calamity in flannel, shouting into a hand-held radio. As the man pulled a rifle from the cab of the truck, Carlin turned and spun.

  Crack!

  Bark flew from a tree, shattered by the impact of a bullet. Carlin yelped and pushed himself harder, darting between trees. He couldn’t keep the topography in his head but he tried to move with the trees between him and the shooter.

  He had to get out of here. Tears filled his eyes as he ran, only mostly from the wind. This was the First World. One didn’t just get hunted for sport on the road to a major U.S. city. All he’d wanted to do was stop for a meal. Ease the long drive with a little break. What the hell was going on here?

  Three more shots rang as he ran, and he cut perpendicular to them. Think paintball, Carlin. You rock at the executive paintball retreats. How do you lose the enemy in Capture the Flag?

  Simple. Run somewhere they don’t expect.

  He slipped and fell four or five times, his shoes finding no purchase in the wet, decomposing leaves of the forest floor, but finally he collapsed up against a tree. His limbs shook with exhaustion, tears burning his eyes. Sweat soaked through his shirt and it wouldn’t take long before that bled heat out of his body in the chilly mountain air. He wasn’t dressed for this. He wasn’t ready for this.

  All right. What did he have at his disposal? He was dressed poorly, but it could probably be worse. He couldn’t trust the road, so he had to walk. He started to shiver, but it wasn’t cold enough to be life-threatening, and if he kept moving even the cold wouldn’t be too bad. So those two problems would cancel each other out if he just had a destination.

  He checked the phone. Still no bars.

  He put it away and reached up to his ear. The Bluetooth headset still hung there, even after the roll and the dodge. A bit of good luck. Dear God, he didn’t think that anything could go his way. He didn’t dare activate Lexi on speaker.

  “Lexi, I need the location of the nearest law enforcement authority.”

  “Searching.”

  He almost hadn’t downloaded the Lexi update before leaving. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have offline mode while his phone wasn’t able to contact the central Lexi servers. The perks of always needing the newest and the shiniest. It didn’t just keep you ahead of the Joneses. Sometimes it kept you ahead of frothing, entrails-craving murder monkeys.

  “Located,” the voice said in his ear. “The nearest Sheriff’s department is 1.8 miles away. The nearest Highway patrol facility is 2.3 miles away.”

  The idea of a Sheriff’s department screamed “locals” to him. He wouldn’t trust some hick Deputy to take him seriously even if they didn’t know the people in that diner. No, Highway Patrol would pull from a state pool of talent. “Take me to the Highway Patrol.”

  “Turn around and walk .21 miles to the road and get back into your vehicle.”

  Dammit. “Lexi, switch to hiking mode. I’d like to walk.” Please be a preloaded feature. Please be a preloaded feature.

  “Switching to hiking mode.” Thank God. He didn’t remember downloading the hiking maps. A second moment of luck. Lexi continued, “Head east for 1.5 miles, skirting south around Hillings Hill.”

  Carlin started off.

  “You’re walking west.”

  Carlin turned around and headed the other direction.

  When he’d caught his abusive mother cheating on his father, he’d gotten proof and managed to make sure his father got custody. When his new Southern stepbrothers had beaten him mercilessly, he’d learned to lie in wait and to return the pain sevenfold. When his college girlfriend had dumped him and posted those pictures on the internet, he’d buckled down, exercised ten hours a week, joined crew, and been accepted into a frat. When he’d been passed over for his second promotion at work, he’d learned that being the best at his job wasn’t enough. You had to appear better than everyone else, and that meant dressing the part and tearing them all down. This was what made him a man not just worthy of respect, but a man who demanded respect.

  Carlin Reese was agile. He had never been the man necessary to face the challenges before him. His genius was that he became that man when necessary.

  Become the man who can survive this.

  Lexi estimated that an inexperienced hiker would take fifty-five minutes to make the hike to the Highway Patrol. Carlin did it in forty-three.

  He came up on the building from the back side, not trusting the road. His shoes slipped every other step on the wet underbrush of the building’s hill. He was more a quadruped than biped but with mud slithering through his fingers and soaking through battered knees, he finally clawed his way up to the parking lot.

  The bu
ilding was blond brick and glass. Two cruisers sat out front, just visible around the corner from where Carlin stood. He took a deep breath and stumbled around the building until he could see through the giant windows.

  A man in a Highway Patrol uniform and shiny brown hair stood as he saw Carlin, his face flashing through confusion to concern to professional helpfulness in rapid succession. He waved for Carlin to approach even as he moved around the desk and headed for the glass side door to let him in.

  Carlin pulled on the door but it was locked until the deputy hit the bar on the inside. Carlin stumbled in, the heat like an embrace as he broke the plane of the doorway.

  “Oh thank God,” Carlin said and started to shake. “I thought I’d never find the place.”

  “Did you get lost?” the officer asked. He seemed to be trying to process why Carlin had come to the building from behind. “Your car go off the road?”

  Carlin’s headache returned. “They’re trying to kill me.” He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until he could finally rest.

  The deputy guided him into a chair. “Sit down. Tell me who’s trying to kill you.”

  “Locals,” Carlin said. “This is going to sound crazy, but I think they’re in some kind of cult. They want to sacrifice me for some sort of ritual.”

  The Officer perked up at that. “Raymond!” he shouted. “Raymond, you were right…”

  A second Highway Patrol officer stepped out of the back, still buttoning his shirt as if he’d just come on duty. Short and stocky, his shirt pressed and perfect. His eyes dark and searching. It was the leader from the diner.

  “…He came right to us,” the officer finished, pulling his gun from his holster.

  The barrel of the gun yawned, so huge it could swallow worlds, and Carlin had to stop himself from leaning out and catching the edge of the desk. He had to stand perfectly still. He couldn’t set them off. They had him. His body couldn’t contain the fear. It bounced back and forth, like waves, between him and the stupid, grinning officers, off the walls. His temples pounded, almost as bad as at the diner.

  “You can’t have my entrails.” All right. That was a stupid thing to say.

  “Hi, Carlin,” Raymond said, “That’s your name, right? Carlin?” He smiled broadly, but there was something off about it, like a creature playacting at being a man. “I’m Raymond. This is Nathan,” he gestured at the officer.

  Raymond wasn’t wearing his belt. Nathan started to reach behind, presumably to grab cuffs. He moved slowly though, deliberately, as if he wasn’t comfortable in his own skin.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” Raymond said. “Carlin, there’s something we need to get out of you.”

  “I’ll bet,” Carlin said. Keep them talking. Talking has never failed you. “You are part of some sick cult and you’re going to use my guts to summon something.”

  “Nathan!” Raymond said. “No handcuffs, remember? The iron.”

  “Right. The zip ties are in the back.” Nathan nodded at a door and Raymond moved for it, not taking his eyes off Carlin.

  “I don’t know what this is about,” Carlin said, “but I’ll pass.”

  “We all have to make sacrifices, Carlin,” Raymond said. “You shouldn’t resist. That will only make things worse. You know what we mean. We look toward the future. You can make that future happen.” He reached the back and slid through the door. “This is for the best.”

  “The best. Right.”

  Nathan’s shoulders telegraphed his alertness. His eyes wide and wild. Why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? If they just needed his intestines…

  “You can’t kill me here,” Carlin said in realization. They needed to truss him up and move him somewhere. Maybe his intestines weren’t enough. Maybe they needed to be fresh.

  “The Grand Old One cannot come into this world,” Raymond said, stepping back into the room with a zip tie in one hand. “It isn’t too late. If you come willingly, I promise your sacrifice will be worth it.”

  Trying to stop something, not summon it? “I don’t know what Republicans have to do with this,” he said. “I’m a fiscal conservative and a social progressive.” It didn’t matter what their delusion was. Who cared if they thought they were killing him for good or for evil? They were still murderous bastards.

  But Raymond was squinting at him. He smiled. “Ah. Grand Ol’ Party. You made a GOP joke.” He nodded as he walked across the room. “Funny. But no. A Grand Old One is a creature so old and so dangerous that its existence endangers everyone for miles. Maybe many states away. We aren’t murderers, Carlin. You aren’t either.” He started forward with the tie, gesturing for Carlin to put his hands on his head. “We just need to open you up a little.” He grinned wildly at his own joke. “Think of the children. It’s a glorious future we see, Carlin. They will sing your praises for generations. If you submit.”

  “Tell that to my entrails,” Carlin said, putting his hands on his head. He couldn’t do otherwise with the gun, but he couldn’t let him bind his wrists either. He had to do something.

  Raymond nodded. “All right, fine, we’re murderers, but if we don’t finish the ritual soon and unravel the spell, it will come. It doesn’t care about us or our families. It doesn’t care about yours. But you already know that, don’t you. Deep down.” His face twitched and the good-ol’-boy persona almost cracked, but then it returned, like a carnival mask layered over a puppet made of bones. He looked at Carlin’s stomach and giggled. He actually giggled. “Deep down. Get it? Get it?” His eyes flashed wild for a moment, then his face became composed. “If you come with us willingly, we’ll finish this. Don’t embrace the fear. Defy it. This is the right thing to do. Trust us.” He smiled in what he probably thought was a reassuring manner. “We’re the police.”

  Okay. Okay. Carlin was starting to get a feel for it. “You’re insane.”

  “Oh sure,” Raymond said, grabbing one of his hands and wrenching it around behind him. “A sane man couldn’t save the world. The sane men have already broken completely. It’s best if you just let go. Lean into the insanity. It’s the only way to keep your survival instincts from playing into its hands.”

  “You don’t have to be crazy to work here,” Nathan said, “but it helps.”

  Raymond started to pull his other hand around and Carlin drove his head back into the man’s face. Raymond jerked back, losing control of Carlin’s wrists. That was easier than he—

  The gun jumped in Nathan’s hand.

  The pain exploded in Carlin’s arm before he registered the sound of the shot, a sudden explosion of agony and shock. Carlin didn’t react coherently, but the wound didn’t immobilize him either, and there are two primary reactions to mortal assault: fight and flight.

  Carlin fought.

  He screamed and grabbed a lamp with his good right arm and hurled it into Nathan’s face, running before he had time to think. He charged straight at one of the tall windows, wondering if he had the strength to shatter it or if he’d just bounce off.

  But he needn’t have worried because through the window the tall gangly one was just getting out of a Fire Department SUV and pulling up a rifle, a huge bruise on the side of his head where Carlin had pounded him with the trash can. Seeing Carlin charging him, he raised the gun and fired, destroying the intervening window, but glass must have deflected the bullet just enough. The shot missed.

  Carlin flew through the falling shards and into the tall one just as the man fired again, putting a bullet in Carlin’s shoulder. Carlin barreled into him, smashing them both into the SUV. Then he changed direction slightly and threw himself off the hill and back down into the wood. Two more gunshots fired and one of them caught him in the other shoulder.

  And then he tumbled down the hill, came up stumbling, all but blind with fear, delirious with pain, and took off into the woods.

  ***

  Carlin’s headache snapped and vanished. He looked up the hill at the Highway Patrol building. Then a pain exploded in his arm a
nd he almost cried out. His head swam. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his shirt. His heart pounded, his ears roared. What was going on? Just a moment ago he’d been running, with three bullet wounds. Hadn’t he?

  He felt his shoulders, expecting to find shattered bone and pierced lungs, but the skin was smooth and unbroken. And yet he had a tear in the soft meaty outer deltoid of his left arm, right where Nathan had shot him. Had he just imagined everything with the Highway Patrol? Was it a premonition? If not how had he lost the other two gunshot wounds? If so, why did he still have the third? What the hell was going on?

  A cry rose from the building and a moment later the tall gangly one with the bruise appeared, holding the rifle. He stared down into the woods and Carlin drew back, hoping they couldn’t see him. The hick scanned the woods, but didn’t seem to make out Carlin in his hiding place.

  With a flash, the smooth skin of the man’s face vanished, replaced by a pulpy yellow mass, like pus dried in the noonday sun. Then another flash and the skin vanished completely, the man’s face a mass of glistening red muscle and exposed eyeballs, a massive personification of pain and twitching helplessness that lifted its head to the sky and screamed.

  And then normal again, the scream of pain turned into a call over his shoulder. Carlin took the opportunity to pull back farther into the woods, and when the man looked back, he raised his rifle and fired a shot into the tree Carlin had been using for cover a moment before.

  “You see him, Jimbo?” Raymond called out, still out of sight.

  “He’s down there,” Jimbo, the gangly one, replied.

  Carlin took off into the woods, tapping his headset with his good arm. “Lexi, tell me you have a signal.”

  “I have a signal, Carlin.”

  “Dial the nearest metropolitan police department,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Carlin, I do not have a signal.”

  Well, he had ordered her to tell him she had a signal. Dammit. “Give me a satellite view of the area.” He pulled out the phone and looked at the overhead map. He could see the Highway Patrol, a ranger station too far away, and between… “What is that?” It looked familiar, somehow. He tapped it.