Deep and Dark December

by Paul Cave

  The distraction worked.

  Maggie was up on the counter, coming at him in a sodden rage of madness.

  Ben felt a searing pain tear into his shoulder. The teenager’s hot and vile breath filled his nostrils too, a choking stench that almost made him gag.

  He dug his other elbow into her, using his greater bulk to prize her away. She hung on and the blade plunged deeper into flesh and muscle.

  Ben fired – point-blank range and directly into her torso. The hand holding the firearm felt suddenly hot as blood burst from the wound.

  The teenager simply wrapped her arm tighter around him.

  Another muffled shot sounded, and a chunk of Maggie’s back exploded in a burst of red tissue. Blood burst from Maggie’s lips – her internal organs ripped apart and bleeding heavily.

  Ben tasted hot coppery bile as her blood leaked into his open mouth.

  He pulled the trigger again, but the weapon was spent. He heard a sickening scrape directly in his ear, and realised with revulsion that the knife had reached the bone to his shoulder. A twist and a pop, and that arm dropped like a deadweight, uselessly dangling at his side.

  Real fear hit him. Terror even – as he realised that she had the serious ability to take his life. A second burst of adrenaline hit him, and he roared with pain and anger, and managed to push her free.

  She dropped to the floor. The blade still stuck in his shoulder. Some part of Maggie’s brain must have understood that she was less effective without her weapon, and she looked quickly about her for an alternative.

  There were many. Knives and forks, and all sorts of things to be found, some hanging from pegs or racks, others simply laid about on surfaces scattered around them.

  Mercifully, most were positioned behind the trucker. Maggie tried to reach towards a skewer, but Ben threw the empty firearm towards her. The heavy weapon cracked against her skull. Her head tipped sideways, and she lost her balance, sneakers slipping in the red gore that had marred the floor.

  She went down in a heap.

  Ben reached out blindly. His fingers found the cold, steely purchase of something suitable. A chopping knife. He brought the weapon before him, positioning it across his chest, ready for her next attack.

  Maggie just laughed hysterically.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  What started as a hint had now begun to take on real shape. Something large and towering just off in the distance. A crisscross structure that poked out above the tallest of trees.

  The ranger’s lookout tower loomed towards them, alien-looking in this vast field of trees, and it seemed as if the cabin which sat on top was high enough to scratch the underbelly of the clouds that rolled across the sky.

  Rivers turned away from the tower, checking the way in which they had come. Still darkness. No headlights or movement coming from that way.

  “I think we’ve lost him,” he said.

  The deputy glanced through the rear-view mirror, first to him, and then beyond.

  “Damnit,” she said.

  The area lit up spectacularly as she switched the Ford’s headlights onto full beam.

  “What the hell?” Rivers quizzed.

  “I don’t want to lose him.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” Anderson said. “I was just buying us time.”

  “For what?”

  “That,” she said, pointing towards the towering structure.

  They were coming up on the ranger’s tower quickly; the headlights casting the building in greater detail.

  A wide base that stretched upwards to approximately 60 feet, split into five sections with a staircase to each, and narrowing slightly at the top, before it widened out again at the base of the cabin. Dark windows made up each side of the cabin, six or seven panes of glass, that would offer any within a total panoramic view of the forest around them.

  A simple box on stilts really, but a solid and perfect place to either hide or defend.

  Rivers caught himself nodding in subconscious appraisal. This would be a fantastic vantage point. Nothing could approach the tower without first being seen. Only the road they travelled on offered any real sort of entryway, unless the thick forest allowed access, but realistically only to those that lived here.

  Rivers did not think either a bear or elk, nor anything else that was four-legged in nature, could threaten them here.

  Too high.

  Too inaccessible.

  “Outstanding,” Rivers said.

  The deputy nodded. “Don’t get too excited. What if there’s someone already in there?”

  Rivers looked at the dark windows. He did not think so. The wrong season to start with. There would be no reason for any ranger to be there, not in the middle of winter. Absolutely zero chance of a forest fire.

  Someone else could have thought the same as the deputy – a perfect hiding place, safe, remote, with the guarantee on having supplies available. Water to drink. Radio, utilities. Warmth. Yet, as they reached the base of the tower, he could not see any other vehicles nearby.

  It was unlikely that someone infected would have come here on the chance that quarry would be found. No, surely, they would have headed towards a more populated area.

  Like Meadows could be doing right now.

  “Shit,” he said, understanding the deputy’s reasonings for bringing them here. “We need to hurry,” he added.

  “Hold tight,” Anderson responded.

  The Ford skidded to a halt, mud and rainwater splattering the closest foundation, as the vehicle came to rest under the cover of the tower.

  In the next second, the deputy was climbing out. The rain fell clear of the Ford, the wide base of the cabin offering them the protection needed.

  Anderson cranked open the rear door, reaching in to pull Rivers clear, dragging him by the cuffs that bound his wrists together.

  Rivers came freely, no attempt to resist, nor reason to do so. They were bound by something more than steel, a connection that transcended the mortal realm – a merging of souls, two individuals that must work together, if they had any real chance of surviving this night.

  Anderson pulled him towards the first flight of steps. Narrow and steep, they climbed upwards towards the next level of the watch tower.

  Rivers felt as if his legs would betray him, weak and pathetic, as the fever that raged throughout his body rendered him near useless.

  The deputy pulled him upwards. Rain and wind, and the boom of thunder surrounding them, as did the shock of lightning which burst in a white spectacle above their heads.

  “Hurry,” Anderson was calling to him over the storm.

  Rivers looked up, and the stairway seemed to stretch out before him. A pain to his wrists flared as the deputy dragged him upwards.

  They reached the next level, with only four more to go.

  “Leave me,” Rivers said, his lungs burning and legs heavy with exertion.

  “Keep going,” Anderson pleaded.

  Rivers fell against the metal railings that framed the stairway. “Go,” he said.

  The deputy simply shook her head. “Don’t you fucking quit on me – Rivers,” she said.

  He shut his eyes tight, took a deep breath, gathered himself. He could do this. Injury or not. Fever or not. He had survived the horrors of ‘Nam for god sakes. This was nothing. He pushed away from the railings, pride and determination forcing him to do so.

  To hell with Meadows, Magnotta, and the rain that fell. He was not going to give in. Give them the satisfaction of winning.

  He climbed, legs and arms clawing their way higher, Anderson leading the way and Rivers right behind her.

  They reached the highest level after a tumultuous climb, both exhausted by the effort, lungs and limbs temporarily spent.

  The cabin beckoned.

  Just an access to navigate – a simple hole that led from stairs to platform.

  Rivers watched as the deputy passed through the opening. He winced slightly, half expecting someone
to take a swipe at her. It did not happen. In the next second she was standing on the highest platform, urging him to follow.

  He did.

  Rivers found himself at the cabin, the swell of an overhang offering the safety they needed from the downfall. The wind blew from east to west, giving them the chance to reach the western side of the cabin unhindered.

  A heavy-duty padlock stopped them short.

  The deputy pulled her flashlight from her utility belt. She used the heavy implement to smash open the clasp, the lock dropping with a thud to the wooden floor.

  They staggered into the cabin, both holding on to the other. Once inside, Rivers lost his balance and tipped heavily to the floor.

  The deputy left him where he fell, instead she headed towards the cabinets at the rear. Her flashlight played over the contents of the things to be found inside.

  There, a box of matches.

  She was back where Rivers had fallen. But then stepped over him quickly as she reached up to ignite the first propane lantern. Light burst forth, just that single gas light seemingly having enough power to chase the night away.

  The deputy was moving from corner to corner, bringing all the lanterns available to life. Within minutes, she had completed the task. The tower looked more akin to a lighthouse, beams of light scattered in each direction, which cast the forest about them in a bright glare.

  If Meadows was looking for them, they would be hard to miss. The deputy only prayed that he would spot the lights before he ran into any unsuspecting traveller out there on the highway.

  The deputy turned to Rivers. He was still splayed out on the floor. She helped him onto a nearby cot, and he fell heavily onto the thin mattress.

  “Okay – Rivers, show me,” she said.

  “Show you what?” he asked.

  “What it is that’s making you – like this,” she gestured to the cot, and him laid out there - weak and pathetic.

  Rivers almost told her he was fine, but then understood that he was anything but. If Meadows were to find him like this, he would be in real shit.

  He unbuttoned his jacket. The bloodied shirt came into view.

  The deputy hissed when he lifted the soiled shirt away.

  She spun on her heels and made her way to a shelf. A first aid box, with the red cross stencilled across, appeared in her hands.

  Rivers held his hand out. “No.”

  Anderson offered him an exaggerated look of sympathy. “This is going to hurt. I mean - really hurt.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Maggie slipped backwards, and the gloom of the diner embraced her as she seemingly disappeared from the eyes of the trucker.

  Ben blinked.

  The teenager was gone. A scuff of blood had been smeared into the floor, her heels leaving that trail, and the pain he felt added to the reality of her passing.

  Ben could feel the steak knife digging into his shoulder - a sickening pain that threatened to empty his guts. He felt nauseous and had to focus on the act of not throwing up.

  He stood there for a few moments more before weakness dropped him to his knees. The pain at his shoulder was too great, bone and sinews screaming out in silent agony.

  Ben slipped to the floor, his legs flopping weakly before him. The chopping knife was still clasped tightly in his hand, yet he had not been forced into using it.

  Maybe Maggie had realised she was beat?

  The trucker cast his gaze about him, half expecting Maggie to come screeching out of the darkness.

  That did not happen.

  Rather, the trucker found himself suddenly alone. The rain battered the front of the diner, and the wind filled in when the heavy torrent took a moment’s pause.

  The heavy blade slipped from his fingers. It clattered to the floor with a metallic clang.

  He tried the knife at his shoulder. Just his fingertips brushing the hilt lightly. It was enough to set searing pain racing from shoulder to the rest of his body. His hand flopped feebly into his lap.

  Ben wanted to close his eyes - just for a minute, take a short nap, away from the pain, and fatigue willed him to do so. Yet, the trucker knew that would be foolish. Maggie could be back any moment.

  He listened instead.

  Was she just hiding in the shadows, waiting for him to drop his guard?

  Nothing inside the diner stirred.

  No teenager.

  Or mutt, for that matter.

  Ben felt an added pain to his chest. What the hell had happened to his friend?

  All sorts of terrible imagery filled his head. Cal gutted and hanging from one of the trees outside. The mutt’s headless body simply tossed into the mud, rain washing away the blood. Him being eaten by Maggie’s ever-grinning face.

  Ben shook his head to chase those awful pictures from his mind. He had to move. Stay in the game. For Cal’s sake at least. Ben wanted revenge.

  He took a deep breath and looked around him. The countertop was just to his side, all he had to do was reach up and use it as leverage. Stand first.

  His hand sought for firm purchase. His fingers stopped short – something glinted dully just below the counter. Ben had to reposition himself slightly to make out what it was.

  He almost laughed.

  The deputy’s shotgun was hanging directly before him, and in the most obvious of places. Just under the cash register. Instantly accessible – if the need was required, and the first place they should have looked.

  Ben silently chided himself.

  Using his good hand, he patted at his jeans, and one of his pockets revealed the single cartridge that Anderson had given him.

  Ben dug it out.

  Held it before his face in an almost reverent fashion. Kissed it even – his face in danger of becoming demented like that of Maggie’s.

  He shuffled forwards on his rear, blood helping him to slide with less friction. His hand sought out the weapon. He plucked it from its hiding place. Cradled it for a moment, before inserting the shell into the loader.

  He worked the loading mechanism and heard the satisfying noise as the cartridge slid into the breach.

  Just the one shot to count on.

  But one would be enough.

  All he had to do was put Maggie in front of him.

  Simple.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The cot was a comfortable substitute to the tight confinements of the Ford’s rear, or the hard chairs of the diner, or floor even, and Jake Rivers took some pleasure in that.

  His heart was still knocking against his chest however, as he was not looking forward to the next few seconds.

  “You sure you don’t want to bite down on anything?” Anderson asked.

  Rivers shook his head. “Just do it.”

  “Okay,” the deputy said.

  Anderson tipped the bottle of hydrogen peroxide towards the wound at his side. The liquid bubbled on contact with his flesh, deep reds and black foaming around the bullet hole.

  Rivers acted as if 1000 volts had just been applied to his limbs. His legs shot out, and the arm cuffed to the bed bent into a crooked shape, only his free arm remained normal, just a fist forming tightly, as the bubbling liquid did its job.

  “This would have been a lot easier had you mentioned it earlier,” Anderson said, once his pain had subsided.

  Rivers could only offer her a weak nod.

  “A few more hours and it would have become seriously infected,” she added.

  The bottle gave a little chug again as Anderson tipped a second lot of liquid into the wound. The blood looked lighter this time, more of a pink foam now, and none of that ghastly black stuff.

  Rivers did his straight-legged jig again, shorter this time, but no less intense.

  The deputy laughed slightly. “Man up – Rivers, it’s just a scratch.”

  Not true – the wound looked deep and raw, but clean, as she could make out the different layers of fat and tissue.

  The deputy swapped the bottle of peroxide for a tin cup.
She tilted the cup to his lips, allowing him to take a sip of water.

  “Take these,” she said, handing him two white pills.

  Rivers eyed them with something akin to distrust.

  “It’s just Advil, they’ll bring your fever down,” she said.

  Rivers took them, popped them into his mouth. Anderson tipped the cup towards him, and the tablets went down with a gulp.

  “Good boy,” she said in a mocking tone.

  Rivers just lowered his head into the wafer-thin pillow.

  “How long have we been here?” he asked.

  “Not long,” she replied.

  “Any visitors?” he asked.

  The deputy half stood, her eyes looking out and down to see if the VW had arrived in the last few minutes.

  “Not yet,” she replied, understanding he had meant Meadows.

  “Where do you think he’s gone?” Rivers asked.

  “He could be halfway to the big city by now,” Anderson said.

  Rivers nodded.

  He did not think so, to be honest.

  The small satchel in the trunk of the Ford could still be of interest to the ailing man. That is, if Meadows’ brain had started to think straight.

  The $15,000 in the bag, untraceable bills at that, may grant them the return they were hoping for. Then again, Meadows could be out there enjoying an endless killing spree.

  The fact that Meadows had had the presence of mind to operate a vehicle was the one thing that made Rivers believe they would be seeing him again. If he could display such mental dexterity in that, then it wasn’t a huge leap of faith to assume that the human condition could also be a motivating factor.

  Greed, for one.

  Rivers had decided to keep the money quiet – he didn’t want the deputy labelling him as a thief as well as a killer. Seemed silly in retrospect, but he felt cheap and dirty about the takings. Not his anyway. The cash had been taken in the hope that it would be used to help Meadows, and Magnotta, in their quest for a treatment.

  The deputy brought his thoughts to the fore.

  “How can Meadows be doing – well, the things he’s doing?” she asked.

  Rivers thought for a moment. This would be the first time he had voiced his understanding of the rain. And the ramifications of it.