CLUB MEDicine: A Novel

by Jack Kinsley

  He'd already driven past the front of the house and around the neighborhood. He found Dallas's rented Jeep Cherokee parked down the block and around the corner, even though there was plenty of curb space closer to the house. Travis parked in the very same spot he'd been in last time, avoiding the shower of light from a neighbor's security lamp. When he cut the engine, it drew in an unsettling silence. As he had done before, he read the square codes of light that radiated from the Victorian home to get a sense of who was where and what could be happening in the house, but it was all irrelevant this time around. He knew what kind of animal lurked inside, and the lights in the windows weren't congruent with any kind of expected schedule. The exception was the soft orange glow in the kitchen — dimmed and seemingly quiet — that would conveniently serve as his point of entry again.

  He didn't have much of a plan, if any, and with great difficulty he reined in his wild imagination, already manufacturing all the worst-case scenarios. It was good to prepare for whatever could possibly go wrong, but what he really needed was to make use of his limited options. Finding some kind of weapon topped the list. He exited the car and scanned the alley for anything rudimentary — maybe a loose brick or a discarded lead pipe (which would have been perfect, but highly unlikely). After a few wasted minutes of hunting, he spotted something white and tall standing against the closed, warped lid of a trash bin. It turned out to be layers of stacked window blinds that only found rigidity as a whole. No chance it would work against the giant.

  When he turned, he kicked a hunk of concrete the size of his fist. He picked it up and tossed it up a couple times, catching it and feeling its weight. He had the ridiculous notion that if he could now only find a sling in the alley, he could hit Goliath square between the eyes with the stone and then cut off his head using a kitchen knife.

  Travis tossed the concrete into some tall weeds and it clinked against a hidden pipe. The pipe was attached, but the sound told him where he should look next. Why hadn't he thought of it before? It could be the perfect weapon. He headed back toward his car and hit the remote to open the trunk. It was a bad idea. The taillights pulsed brightly twice, like flares shooting in the alley; if the giant had been looking, Travis had just alerted him to his arrival and position. There was also the steady light under the lid of the trunk now throwing a wide spotlight with him in it. He had to work quickly.

  He lifted the floorboard and immediately recognized the bits and pieces making up the emergency jack, but for him, they were weapons of choice. He was ready to go with the jack handle, a solid three-quarter piece of steel, but then caught something larger winking in the light under the spare. He jerked it free from under the tire and quickly closed the trunk. It was an L-shaped lug wrench. He inspected it in the faint alley light. It had two dangerous ends that could inflict plenty of damage. There was a sprocket wrench at the end of the short bent arm and then a chiseled, prying tip at the end of the long arm. He swung it a few times and it felt good in his hands. It had some considerable weight and would do nicely in splitting Dallas's skull or poking his baked beans out of their sockets.

  He slid the wrench through one of his rear belt loops, hooking it firmly over his belt, and then drew the tail of his shirt over it and made his way to the back gate. It wasn't locked (he'd lost count of how many times he'd told Ana to keep it secure, but was happy tonight she had never listened to him), and he slipped into the yard without any difficulty.

  At the back steps, he squatted and grabbed a handful of gravel resting under the garden hose as an option to create a distraction. Their small, sharp points embedded inside his fist. Up the steps and onto the porch, he listened intently at the window, but there was nothing; only a small animal scurrying through some dried leaves in the yard. He peered around the wraparound porch, along the length of the house, and then listened at the window again, his temples beating with adrenaline.

  Were they even home? They had to be. He looked down at the gravel in his hand and felt a bit silly since he'd only be tipping Dallas off to his presence. He knelt and carefully released the crushed rock into a small pile on the planks, then wiped his palm clean on the side of his trousers. He drew the lug wrench from his belt, adjusted his grip until he was confident, and then went to the back door and poked the key into the lock. When he turned it, there was a much louder snap inside the lock than anticipated, and he sidestepped and waited with his back against the outside wall.

  Holding his breath, he regained his wits, cracked the door open, and peered in. There wasn't any movement and no sound except for the orange glow of the dimmed lights humming inside his head. He opened the door slightly wider and stuck his head in for a better look and listen. The coast appeared to be clear. He stretched in a little further, and then a little further.

  Still no sound.

  But then, he sensed something behind the door — the approach of a looming shadow. Before he could turn to look, he realized it was too late to make a move; he'd made a terrible mistake. A massive hand took him by the back of the neck and dragged him inside effortlessly. He was as helpless as a kitten being hauled by its mother, paralyzed into compliance. When he tried to kick himself free, something hard slammed across the back of his head. A bolt of lightning ran through him. The lights went out.

  — — —

  When his mind began to lift and swim in the dark, the wound at the back of his head pounded heavily. His first instinct was to reach up and touch the pulsing siren, but he couldn't move his arms or legs, as if he was held captive in a nightmare.

  Eventually he was able to move various parts of himself as he gradually reunited with his body — but only his fingers and toes, everything else restricted. His head was forward, but he didn't know if he was right side up, or on his side, not until gravity was part of his world again. He was pretty sure he was sitting, yes, he was...sitting, in a chair — one with a chair.

  His eyes fluttered and images flickered before him. It was like an old movie countdown before it began: 3, 2, 1...

  He lifted his head and the immense weight of it was thrown onto his right shoulder, then his left. He heard a slap, felt a slap, then another slap in the opposite direction, then again, and again, batting his head from side to side. His cheeks burned now and the blood rushing there seemed to bring life back into his sight. His eyes shot open, but everything was out of focus, as if he was underwater without a mask. A hazy, colossal figure stood in front of him. The image steadily sharpened, and Travis knew the proprietor of that shape. His mind cried out the bastard's name. The large, hairless head drew closer to him, filled his vision. Only inches from his face, the beady eyes ground into hard clear edges; black vacuous pupils looked to pull him in and scarf him down.

  "Welcome back, Mr. Martin." The voice came from another world. "We've been waitin' for you. You know you're easier to catch than a damn rodent." The intruding face moved in again and began to sniff him. "And if I ain't mistaken, I believe you even startin' to smell like one, too." Travis could feel the man's ghastly breath exhaling on his neck. He turned away, but could only move his head. It was only then that he became fully aware of his situation, bound securely to a chair in the living room, his mouth gagged.

  Dallas sniffed a last time at his exposed nape and then stood in front of him. "You know the nature of a rodent? They are fascinatin' creatures — livin' one hell of a predicament. Let me tell you...or better yet, let me ask you: Why is it that a rodent continuously gnaws on anything and everything in this world?"

  He grabbed the top of Travis's hair and forced him to look at him, but of course Travis couldn't respond. "Something got your tongue, son?" The giant smiled. "Well, maybe not yet. But it looks like I'm gonna have to tell you after all. It's to wear down their incisors. You see, they never stop growing and they have two pairs, one on the top and one on the bottom." He poked roughly at the places around Travis's mouth. "They really have no choice but to keep gnawing and gnawing away at everythin' around them, good or bad, because they have to
keep those teeth down. But I have a suspicion you already knew that."

  Travis did already know about the predicament of the rodent, but what he was realizing was that Dallas had almost completely lost his hillbilly accent. He didn't know whether some other personality had shown up tonight or if he'd just been playing a good ol' southern boy all along.

  "Rodere!" Dallas exclaimed and stepped back with a pointed finger to the ceiling. He beamed with pride — possibly because he'd remembered the term; possibly because he was a fucking lunatic.

  "It's the Latin word for gnaw," he continued. "Did you know that, Mr. Martin? Hmmm? I bet you didn't. And I'm also bettin' you've got a pair in there." He pulled the gag down from Travis's mouth and forced his jaw open for a look, then nodded at him knowingly. "Yep, just what I thought. You've been a busy little rodent. Haven't you? Keeping those incisors down to the detriment of others?"

  Then, coming from behind the giant, Travis heard a stifled voice like someone trying to speak through layers of cloth. He tried to look past him, rubber necking, and nearly tipped over in his chair. Dallas obliged him and stepped to one side so he could see.

  It was Ana.

  She was also tied to a chair at the end of the dining table, gagged with what looked like a white t-shirt knotted at the side of her head. Mascara stained her cheeks. She stared at Travis with wide, fixed eyes. Her wrists were bright red and raw from struggling in vain with the ropes that securely bound them to the armrests; her legs were tucked awkwardly back and bound to the rear of the chair. The jagged scar on her neck was inflamed, as if it had only recently healed, and she was barefoot, wearing a simple house dress. Travis had purchased the dress for her and everything looked intact. He couldn't be certain, but he believed the beast hadn't violated her — not yet anyway.

  On the dining table, just next to Ana, was a rainbow of magic markers lying across beautiful drawings that could have come from no other hand than Bella's. Travis could see only one of the images, of a little girl jumping rope in a park under a smiling sun. She hadn't been afraid when she drew it, everything had been most likely normal at that point, and he took a smidgen of solace in that. In stark contrast, next to her drawings were Dallas's hunting knife, the 9mm, and the L-wrench Travis had carried in with him. Just visible inside the kitchen was a clock on the wall that read ten-thirty p.m. He calculated he must have been out cold for at least two hours.

  "Where's Bella? Is she okay?" he shouted at Ana.

  Travis saw her flick her eyes up the stairs before Dallas backhanded him. It felt like a mortar of steel across his temple and the titanic force instantly turned his neck to rubber and dropped his chin back into his chest again. His eyes danced toward his lap for a while and when he could finally sustain a line of sight, he realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. But that didn't bother him so much as the peculiar numbers written on him with black marker. On his left hand, the number 1 was on his pinky finger, the finger next to it had number 2, and the next number 3. On his right hand were the numbers 4 on his index finger and 5 on his middle finger. He was tied identically to Ana, as if strapped to an electric chair, but he hadn't seen any numbers on her, and his mind chased itself for a meaning — but his rising train of thought quickly ended when Dallas bitch-slapped him again. It was his opposite cheek this time and his entire face burned like it had been shoved into a deep fryer. He heard distant muffled screams coming from Ana.

  He felt the giant lean over him and then speak closely into his ear. His breath smelled like rancid meth and dying vagina. "Guess what, Mr. Martin? You're no longer running the show here." Dallas put the gag back over Travis's mouth. "Or should I say...you ain't holdin' court no mo'. This here hillbilly boy's gonna give ya the beatin' you deservin'. Gonna pay in kind to treatin' folks the ways you do." The giant lifted Travis's head so he could see him, and then switched out of redneck mode. "What do you say, Mr. Martin? Shall we get started?" He let go of Travis's head. It dropped heavily back into his chest.

  This time, Travis discovered yet another set of sequential numbers written across his ribs; the left rib cage had the numbers 6, 7, and 8 on the lower three ribs, and the right side had the pair of 9 and 10 on his middle ribs. What the fuck is this? And then, out of the corner of his eye, he read the large number 11 on his right shoulder. How many were there? How many more that he couldn't see? The thought really freaked him out and he began to struggle violently, kicking his limbs in every direction, bucking and twisting, trying to loosen what twine he could but only feeling it burn and cut into his skin. Nothing worked. He conceded and sat still, and then directed Dallas's attention to the numbers on his hand, as if to ask him for an explanation.

  The giant squatted in front of him, coming in at eye level. "You know what I was doing earlier? I was watching that beautiful angel of yours drawing and humming Elvis songs. And I'm not an artist by any means, but I do believe that precious little girl just might be some kind of prodigy. Amazing to be that young and so talented. She's an inspiration." He tapped the numbers 1, 2, 3 on his left fingers as if playing a few notes on a piano. "And let's just say...the mood struck me." Then he took Travis's pinky finger with the number 1 on it, lifted it tight in his grip, flexed it back and asked, "Do I have your attention now?"

  Travis nodded, his eyes ready to shoot from his skull.

  Dallas moved in close, nose to nose, and told him, "You pissed in the wrong grove, Mr. Martin." And he snapped his finger back like a stick of chalk.

  Travis heard it break and a barbed coil of pain rode up his arm like lightning. He screamed for help. It was muffled, but still made a racket — he heard Ana's stifled cries join in. If only a neighbor could hear them. Unfortunately, during the remodel of their home, Travis had argued with Ana about replacing the original windows with double-paned windows — she wanted to maintain the historical value of the home, while he wanted the peace and quiet. Regrettably, he'd won that argument.

  When the beating drum in his head began to subside and the agony relented ever so slightly and he could breathe again, his mind repeated the strange choice of word: grove. It was like a sign down a stretch of highway, too far to read, but that would soon tell him in which direction this was going.

  Dallas was suddenly in his face again with a grimace that was somewhere between a fart and a smile. He leaned in and snapped finger number 2. Another shot of misery rode up Travis and a duet of electric guitars wailed high-pitched solos at the end of his arm. A hasty bolt of queasiness shot down his stomach and he thought he was going to throw up in his lap. He held it back by emitting a long guttural groan that seemed to satiate the urge. His eyes watered involuntarily while the sweat began to pour from him. Upstairs, he heard a faint pounding at a bedroom door.

  "I read the autopsy report," the giant continued. "And her list of injuries was catastrophic." He paced calmly in front of Travis and shook his head in pity at him. "Just terrible to imagine the level of pain one's body can endure and still have that will to keep fighting. Even when there's no chance to survive, the mind sometimes just isn't ready to give up. And I heard she put up a hell of a fight. She hung on for a while — and all by herself from my understanding." He stopped and eyed Travis. "You know who we're talking about yet? Pretty young thing. Brilliant in her field. Promising career. About this high?" His hand measured at his chest; Travis looked past him and met eyes with Ana, who glared at him in despair and fierce curiosity.

  "You have enough pieces of the puzzle yet, Mr. Martin?" Dallas asked, and pulled the gag down from his mouth.

  Travis stretched his jaw open a few times, licked at some dried blood at the corner of his mouth, and said, "Marilyn Grove."

  "Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!" Dallas hollered like a fool. "The rodent got somethin' right!"

  Travis remembered Marilyn mentioning a delinquent brother in passing, but it had carried very little weight in their conversations. The only thing that struck him then, and now, was how she had described his freakish size.

  "You're
the brother who disappeared in the woods," Travis told him.

  "Not by choice, Mr. Martin. The world put me there." Some deep resentment seemed to break loose inside him and bubble up to the surface. Dallas secured the gag on Travis again. When he spoke again, the good ol' country boy was back. "Up until I find my way back out them woods. And let me tell ya, discoverin' one's purpose in life can be downright rewardin'. Who would've thunk it, huh?" The giant slapped the heel of his hand against Travis's forehead. The force was so great that it sent the chair back on its two hind legs where it wavered for a moment, as though deciding which direction it would fall. When it came back down onto its front two legs, Dallas caught finger number 3 in his grip.

  Then he introduced himself, "Dallas Grove...nice to finally make your acquaintance. I would have come to see ya sooner, but they had me locked up in a cage." And he pulverized the finger.

  Travis didn't even cry out for this double fracture, even though the pain was tremendous and his hand felt like a striker constantly ringing a dinner bell. The torture was a form of penance; he knew that now. Ana stared at him hopelessly, two fresh rivers flooding down into her gag. The beast observed Travis, realizing he hadn't flinched or squirmed for the last break. He was clearly disappointed. He grabbed Travis by the back of his hair, slammed their foreheads together, and broke fingers 5 and 6 on his right hand at the same time.

  This time, Travis couldn't fight back the explosion of pain: he howled like an animal. Dallas quickly put a hand over his mouth and began to mimic his cries. From the second floor, Travis heard a muffled cry and more pounding at the door.

  "Shout again and I'll use that L-wrench over there to knock out every one of your teeth. Understood?" The giant let go of him and pulled up a chair next to Travis. He sat heavily and the wooden joints fired out a few cracks (not unlike the noises that had been emanating from Travis). He let out a sigh, as if torture was hard work. He appeared satisfied with the last genuine display of suffering and leaned back, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap, looking almost delicate. It could have been tea time.