This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

“I should’ve finished him when I had the chance,” spat Mick.

  Lilly placed an arm around her father. Nobody felt the brunt of Siphon’s wrath like the Randall family, Charlene knew. But even she was angered by Wallace’s involvement with Siphon’s new guard dog.

  The six men walked towards the townsfolk like a group of friends going to the pub for an ale. Only Greg seemed nervous, his eyes darting to avoid the stares. Harvard, holding his megaphone, spoke first:

  “Good evening,” he said, assessing his audience. No response, for nobody knew what this was. Charlene had a fair idea, and she guessed Mick and Billy were thinking the same. Killer snapped at Wiggles, causing the boy to hide behind his oldest brother. Harvard handed the megaphone to Siphon. He held the instrument to his side for a moment, just to absorb the faces stationed before him. He did not blink.

  Charlene felt his gaze. It burned her face and constricted her stomach.

  “The rules, in my view, are quite simple,” he said, a screeching sound demonstrating his hate of the megaphone. “I leave you out of the system, you pay rent, and everyone gets along.”

  He allowed the words to linger.

  “I don’t come into your house, and you don’t come into mine.”

  Charlene knew this was about the barn and the escape of the teenage girl. She tried to focus on Greg so that her expression did not alert Siphon or the others. What would happen to James and Jasper? What would happen to Karen? A swift breeze blew through the crowd, the sounds of clothing whipping skin as Siphon let his silence rattle their skulls.

  “As it turns out, some of you have broken the rules and entered my barn today. Three of you, if I’m to be exact. And now someone is missing. Can anyone tell me why this is?”

  Perhaps he had CCTV footage in the barn.

  Perhaps he already knew which citizens of Sulley Ridge had been dumb enough to break in, set free his captive and try to cover up the deceit.

  She stole a glance at Mick, who remained by her side. His jaw was tense, the scars on his neck pulsating and raw. His fists were clenched so tight that they were trembling. Further along was Billy, as pale as a bare arse on birth day, rubbing his injured foot with his uninjured one. The pockets of silence were torturous.

  “Nobody? That’s a shame. You see, I try my best to be fair. I’m nowhere to be seen during the day, and at night I’m usually in my office at the barn. No tricks, no plunder. Predictable, you could say. Perhaps I’m too lenient. Perhaps, every now and then, you need a reminder of consequence for when the rules are broken.”

  Brick and Wolfgang moved forward, grabbing the closest person; Tom Pritchard, still struggling with his own injuries. He was taken so fast that by the time Kane went to interject, Tom was wedged within Siphon’s crew and Killer was baring his teeth in between. The tension rose with chatter and sobs. Charlene had her shotgun in the car and it called to her. This was the time to make a stand. If she could unite the townsfolk, they could overthrow Siphon and end him tonight.

  “I’ll ask you once: who broke into my barn and set the girl free?”

  Her retreating steps stopped when silence assumed control once more. Mick said nothing. Billy said nothing. Hayes attached the lead to Killer and walked through the crowd, a sniffer dog seeking substance. Two townsfolk pressed Hayes in to bring about their own intimidation, finding courage in the deepest cavern, but a click turned them all around again. Brick held a pistol to Tom Pritchard’s head, lowering him to his knees. Sammy and Wiggles were openly crying now, while spittle found way onto Kane’s chin. Nobody answered Siphon’s question.

  “Very well,” he said, smiling. Wolfgang pulled a rope out of a backpack and tied one end around Tom’s throat. Kane ran at Siphon, but within two steps Killer had his teeth deep within the oldest Pritchard’s calf. They all pulled out their guns except Greg, the new man an apprentice to the mayhem. Wolfgang tossed the other end of the rope over a lamp post which bent at a ninety-degree angle, a rock weighing it down so that it fell back into his hand. Charlene felt faint, her feet rooted to the asphalt. Still nobody spoke, for they all had their own fears of loss. Siphon tilted his head, waiting. Nothing. Brick holstered his pistol, took the rope from Wolfgang and pulled. Tom rose to his feet, the force jolting his neck upward. He had wet his pants and cried. He tried to walk away, but the rope was too tight. This was a lynching.

  “For every night that passes without the culprits confessing their sin, I’m going to kill a Pritchard boy. And then the women will be next, night after night. The men, you will be spared so that you can live with what you’ve caused. Your rent doubles. You will give me a key to your house. I will come in and bust holes through your walls and we’ll see how you like it.”

  Brick heaved, and the thin body of Tom lifted off the ground. He grappled for the rope and tried to break free, but it did not budge. Every twist tightened the hold. His feet scraped along the asphalt as his face reddened with lack of air. Kane cursed and screamed and wailed for someone to help his brother, but nobody did. They just watched, shocked into a fearful stupor. Sammy broke free of the crowd and ran to Tom, but a swift jab from Wolfgang knocked him out cold. Wiggles scampered away, hitting Charlene in the gut. She wrapped her arms around him as he sobbed into her flannelette shirt. Tom’s face went from red to blue, as Brick hoisted him higher for all to see. A choking, gurgling sound escaped his mouth, his eyeballs filling with blood. Charlene could not look away, even though the sight was horrific, even though this was her fault.

  A gun shot shattered the atmosphere. Brick fell backwards, clasping his bleeding shoulder. Hayes searched for the shooter but found none. Killer followed his lead. Tom’s body smashed against the asphalt. He did not move. He was dead.

  “Who the fuck was that?” screamed Siphon into the megaphone. So focused were they on strangling Tom that nobody knew the origin of the shot. Kane crawled to his younger brother and removed the rope from his neck, a clear mark left by its tight embrace. He pushed Tom’s chest and breathed into his mouth, but there was no sign of life. Wiggles remained with Charlene, and to the youngest Pritchard she whispered: “Go home, hide in that place you showed me. Don’t talk to anyone except your family.”

  He nodded. Without looking back, he dashed off into the night. Hayes shrugged his shoulders at his boss, seeing nobody with a firearm other than his own. Brick walked over to Tom’s body and kicked with force, causing Kane to grab his leg. Brick was too strong. He placed a boot on Kane’s head and pressed it into the asphalt.

  “Not yet,” said Siphon to Brick, holstering his gun.

  “Remember my words. If nothing has come to my attention, I shall see you all tomorrow night. Same time, same place?”

  He handed the megaphone to Harvard and the five men began walking away. Charlene focused on Greg. He was staring at the body, emotionless. As though the decay went right to the core and there was no longer pain to be felt by brutality.

  “C’mon,” she heard Hayes say to him as he caught up. Off they went, their backs to the town. But the shooter did not reappear. A ghost had lingered just to fire a shot of warning, a precise hit to the shoulder rather than a bullet to the head. They wept together. Everyone dealt with the event in their own way. Some left soon after, unable to listen to the cries of Sammy as he was consoled by Kane. Mick jumped in his ute and sped off. Billy and Jane sat on a bench, waiting for the gang to be far enough away down the road before they drove home. Wallace and Lilly, still staring, used no words to prove they weren’t statues.

  As Charlene turned to go home to her dogs and have a beer to ponder how to solve this mess, she noticed something shimmer as a figure pivoted on the spot to enter The Ginger Bastard.

  Jerry had his rifle parallel to his leg. The nozzle still smoked.

  The Shake-Downs

  The man vomited into a recycling bin. His legs buckled as he did so, causing the bin to fall on its side and dribble dozens of empty beer bottles across the lawn. Darkness shrouded colour. The man regained footing and looked aroun
d, wondering if he was being followed.

  After the events in town, they had walked all the way back to the barn off Billy’s property. The men laughed, they mocked, they re-enacted Tom’s death and Brick getting shot. It was all a game to them, and the man forced smiles at their jokes and pretended he could cope with this new life. Siphon had taken him up into his office and discussed the man’s role:

  “You may fight well, but you’re not really scaring people. With Brick hurt, you’re going to collect the rent from the store owners tomorrow. Do well and you’ll keep a share.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, composed.

  “You don’t agree with what we did back there?”

  “They disobeyed you, right? So they deserved punishment,” said the man, scratching an itch that wouldn’t pass. “But Tom was used in the ring. The Pritchard boys are useful. Death is so final. You can’t do much else with it.”

  Siphon had glared at him, still unblinking, waiting for more.

  “What would you have done then, Greg?”

  “What would I have done?” the man repeated to himself, trying to think up an answer that didn’t result in a hanging. “I don’t know. But this may incite rebellion rather than cause more fear. You back a bunch of rats into a corner and eventually they’ll chew through you to escape.”

  “Are you a rat?” asked Siphon, removing his sweat-stained shirt and tossing it on his desk.

  “Back me in a corner and we’ll see.”

  Siphon had thrown his head back and laughed. The man was starting to understand how best to talk to this country-town gang leader, similar to the way his employees had spoken to him in the restaurant. But the restaurant was gone now, the charred remains a graveyard for his old life. Punters soon arrived downstairs for more anarchy in the ring, only this time the man heard animals ripping each other apart for the joy of cheering men.

  “Nobody ever really stays once they see what happens here,” said Siphon, lighting a cigar and offering the man one. He declined. “You stayed. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe you’re running from your old life. I know that’s what I did, because the world outside Sulley Ridge has become so monitored. We can be free here, Greg. You can be free here.”

  They were the last words spoken before the man had been told to go home, to get some rest, to get ready for the following day. His legs were heavy, stomach was burning, mind was racing. As he walked away from the barn, the truth of the night settled deep within his bones and the image of Tom losing his life started to replace the falling bodies of Barron Tower. The cries and wails of townsfolk watching one of their own choke, just because Siphon had lost his latest toy. What would Siphon do to him if he found out Wallace’s motive?

  The man had detoured through the main street, sneaking behind shops, to see if anyone remained. Lights were on at The Ginger Bastard, but he dared not venture within despite the craving of an ale to settle his regurgitation. Tomorrow he would enter these shops to collect rent. Their looks towards him had been of hatred. Even Wallace and Lilly, who urged him into this predicament, stared with contempt. But the words of those interviewed outside his burnt-out restaurant continued to replay, louder and louder, as the silence of the country allowed it all to happen. He was hated across Melbourne and throughout Victoria. He was hated across Australia and throughout the world, thanks to the power of the internet. And now, in a place of anonymity and equipped with a new name, he was hated here too.

  The Falcon remained parked alongside his new home, both structures untouched. They did not burn. The neighbouring house was asleep, no light or sign of movement. The man checked his mailbox, out of habit, and found a package wedged within. As he walked the gravel driveway, he tore it open to find a pistol identical to the pieces drawn by Siphon’s men. There was also a sheet that detailed how much rent was due from each shop. Three names stood out above all else.

  Jane, Billy’s wife, owner of the store he’d purchased food from on multiple occasions.

  Jerry, barkeep, the person who served him ale.

  And Mick, hardware store extraordinaire, the man who had beaten him into the following Tuesday. Mick’s rent was now the highest. He would not take kindly.

  The man fingered the pistol, both appreciating and condemning its touch. He wondered if he could ever pull the trigger.

  The fridge contained no beer, just the carcass of a devoured chicken with a few slithers of white meat remaining. The sight and smell caused the man to run to the toilet and dry wretch. After an hour of wandering around the house like a sleep-walker, the man found bed and collapsed. Here had lived a man trying to stop Siphon’s disease from spreading, but he had been ripped in two. What fate would befall this new entrant?

  In his dream he saw her, pulling him through a crowd of people as colourful lights flashed and danced across her skin. There was no sound or touch, no smell or taste. He only saw, as if dragged through a television show on mute for a glimpse at the set. Her face was shrouded by black curls, bouncing in the wind. They moved through the bodies as insignificant beings, trying to see something up ahead that captured the attention of the crowd. More light. A powerful light. They ascended a steep hill to reach a view point, and then he saw it: a building burning from afar, figures streaming out of the upper openings like ants down a hill. And he felt ashamed and responsible, despite the proximity and the alibi that could be approved by those around him. He felt responsible for each splatter on the ground. But this was just a dream, and when he woke with a start he knew this was not how it happened.

  “Get…lost,” growled Jane, as the man approached her counter, no chickens rotating much to his delight. He had the pistol tucked down his front and the paper with names in his hand.

  “Rent is due,” he said as customers gave him a foul look. Wolfgang waited outside with arms crossed, while Harvard was in the car. People weren’t used to seeing Siphon’s gang in daylight. Locals appeared to have more courage while the sun dominated the sky.

  “That’s too much. I can’t afford that. I’ll go under.”

  The man hoped this would be smooth and the people would obey after the night of example. But they were angered, rightly so. The man acknowledged the town was sick of being pushed around, and with death as the consequence they were now pushing back. Yet he also knew they wouldn’t speak this way to Siphon or Hayes. Easy to shirk the new guy.

  “I’m not asking. Put the money in the bag and I’ll move on,” he continued, noticing Wolfgang had entered the shop.

  “You should’ve moved on after Mick sent you half to hell.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, withdrawing the pistol and aiming it at Jane’s forehead. “What shall I tell Billy? His wife valued a few extra dollars over her pretty little head?”

  With no intention of pulling the trigger and aware the gun wasn’t even loaded, the man watched as Jane slammed notes into the paper bag with venom. A woman filling up a cup with red slush narrowed her eyes at him but turned away when Wolfgang joined his side.

  “Problem?” he asked, pulling out his own notepad and jotting some words down with a blue biro.

  “No,” said Jane, changing her tune. “Didn’t like the way Greg asked.”

  “Be nice, Greg,” smiled Wolfgang, his nostrils flaring in delight. The bookie wore a white t-shirt and overalls, embracing the country life. He was completely bald save for a small square patch of hair at the back that looked like an ON switch. The man was used to seeing his skin, the wolf tattoo on his back so life-like. But here he was all business, making his notes and placing the biro in the nook of his ear.

  “Thank you, Jane,” he said, nodding. She turned away and continued sorting through a stack of newspapers to withdraw the lift-outs. Wolfgang counted the money as they walked out, whispering figures to himself and focused only on the contents in the bag.

  “Took your time,” said Harvard, sounding strange without the megaphone attached to his mouth.

  “People aren’t taking too kindly to Greg, by the looks,” said Wo
lfgang, tossing the paper bag into the car. “C’mon, Jerry is next, come get a drink.”

  The three men walked across the road and entered The Ginger Bastard. No Pritchard boy dashed through the street with sugary treats or sat on the pyramid of wood out the front. Spots of blood from Killer’s bite still stained the asphalt, and the lamp post remained as a memory of Tom’s death. Flowers were in a circle at the base. Wolfgang and Harvard cared not for the loss, only for the monetary gains. The man felt strange within the group, like a boy out for lunch with two of his dad’s friends.

  They entered the pub, mid-afternoon, and Jerry began filling pint glasses to the brim. On the dual screens there was American football on one side and news on the other, and the man was relieved to see that for once the scenes weren’t familiar. Jerry placed the beers on the table carefully and nodded, backing away slowly as if guns were pointed in his direction. Without orders, the barkeep stacked his paper bag with cash.

  “You’re a betting man,” said Harvard to Wolfgang, swigging his ale. “So, who do you think set the bitch free?”

  “I’m not a betting man, Harvard. I take the bets. The bookie always wins. Who do you think did it?”

  “Aliens,” he shrugged.

  “What?”

  “Them aliens did it, guaranteed. There’s no way anyone in this town would have the balls to break her out; why would they care about some random teenager? The locks were on and she broke out, not in. The damage was done on the inside. See her skinny arms? She wasn’t strong enough to snap that pipe. It’s them aliens.”

  “What is it with you and fucking aliens?” said Wolfgang, shaking his head and turning to the man. “You know Greg, I thought it was you first up. I did. So did Siphon.”

  The man let the words linger for a moment.

  “It would be pretty stupid to set her free and then knock on the barn on my own accord, would it not?”

  “It would,” he agreed. “But first signs always point to the newbie, you know?”