by Hunt, James
Grant scooped Rick up under his arms and heaved him up the first couple steps while Mocks clumsily grabbed his legs. Both were careful not to damage what was already broken on him, but it was difficult with the random cuts and spotty bandage work.
Rick groaned, and his lifeless head and limbs flopped around on the way up the stairs, but they managed to set him by the door without any major incident. When they returned downstairs, the kids that were awake had huddled in the corner, some of them dragging the unconscious ones with them.
“I know you’re scared,” Grant said. “But I’m a detective, and I’m going to help you.” He gestured to Mocks. “So will my partner.” Mocks gave a friendly wave, and Grant approached Annie, slowly reaching out his hand. She recoiled slightly, but Grant didn’t give up. “Trust me.”
Annie switched her glance from Grant’s hand to his face, the exchange going back and forth a few times until she finally clasped onto Grant’s pointer finger.
“All right then,” Grant said, smiling. “Let’s go.”
With the first girl separating herself from the pack, the others followed. Grant led those that could walk up the stairs and out of the side entrance of the sawmill and into the woods. He led them deep into the brush until they couldn’t even see the mill anymore. Grant marked the spot with some large branches but made sure nothing stood out.
The girls and boy huddled close to one another, and Grant knelt down to whisper at them. “Don’t move, okay?” He held up his hands. “I’ll come back, but you have to stay.” He slowly backtracked through the woods and prayed that their backup arrived before the rest of the goons did.
Grant helped Mocks carry the four kids that were unconscious out of the mill, leaving Rick for last. Grant was glad to see that the kids were still huddled exactly where he’d left them, and also by the fact that he was able to find them again.
Mocks lay her kids down, and when she turned, Grant stopped her. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go and make the last trip.”
“I don’t think so,” Mocks said, taking a step forward, but Grant stopped her once again, this time with more force. “I’m not letting you go back in there alone.”
“And I’m not leaving these kids out here in the woods alone,” Grant said.
Mocks forcefully removed her arm from his grip, and she gave him an adolescent snarl. “Then I’ll go back and you stay with the kids.”
“You didn’t want me to bullshit you, remember?” Grant asked, his temper flaring. “Fine. The chances of Rick surviving are slim. The chances of these kids surviving as long as they have someone to protect them is high. You can’t carry Rick by yourself. If things turn south before I can get back, I’ll ditch him in the woods and cause a distraction.” His anger calmed. “I’ll bring him back. I promise.”
“All right, Grant,” Mocks said, her voice shaking. “Don’t let me down.”
Grant sprinted away and made sure Mocks didn’t follow. Lights flashed to Grant’s left the moment he reached the tree line, and he ducked behind a large pine and craned his neck around the side. They were cars. And they weren’t police.
Gang members exited the vehicles, all armed with automatic rifles, and each one of them looking as though they wanted to blow something off the face of the earth. He watched the gang walk toward the other side of the mill where the trailer was located. There were at least ten, more than enough to mow down Mocks and the kids. Grant drew his pistol, his body scraping the bottom of the adrenaline well to push him just a little further, then sprinted toward the mill door.
Voices bounced off the old machinery, but they came from the other end of the mill. When he found Rick, the wounds on his legs and arms were bleeding again. It oozed from the bandages when Grant picked him up and dripped on the floor. A trail wasn’t something Grant wanted to leave, but he didn’t have time to clean up after himself.
All that mattered now was getting Rick out and making sure the thugs didn’t find Mocks and the kids.
The dead weight wore Grant down, but when he heard the angered shouts inside the sawmill, another shot of adrenaline kept the fatigue of his muscles at bay. He burst into the woods as the thugs exited the mill.
With an added two hundred pounds of dead weight, Grant couldn’t be as quiet as he wanted, pulling Rick through the forest, and so he decided to go with the flow. He reached for his pistol and fired into one of the trees.
The thugs in the clearing immediately honed in on Grant’s location and fired their automatic rifles into the woods, hoping to get a lucky shot, but they came up short. He pulled Rick a few more feet and then tucked him behind a cluster of rocks and shrubs.
More gunshots stole his attention toward the entrance of the forest as Grant covered Rick with branches and leaves. He maneuvered away from Rick, firing into the woods to draw the thugs toward him. He trekked northeast, as far away from Mocks and the kids as he could manage.
Bullets and gunfire filled the night, splintering tree trunks and pounding eardrums. Flashlight beams penetrated the darkness and forced Grant to zigzag through the forest.
After a few minutes, Grant found a large oak that he hid behind and kept quiet. There were two thugs that were close. Grant crouched low at the tree’s base, his knees pressed against his chest. He took quick, shallow breaths as they neared him. Grant’s ears pricked up at the sound of crunching leaves on his left. He aimed the pistol, ready for the thug to walk right by him.
Ellen and Annie filled his thoughts, and Grant knew he’d see them soon. He felt the cold metal of his wedding band, and when he saw the thug’s boot step into his line of sight, he made his move.
Grant jammed the end of his pistol into the thug’s gut and squeezed the trigger. The thug coughed blood over Grant’s face and then collapsed. When Grant saw the lifeless body beneath him, he experienced an emotion associated with death that he never would have said aloud. He felt good.
Gunfire from the thug’s partner forced Grant back behind the tree, and Grant stole the dead thug’s assault rifle. Vibrations from the bullets on the opposite side of the tree trunk hit in rapid succession, and he curled himself into a tight ball to avoid getting hit.
A break in the gunfire allowed Grant to spin from cover and pump four rounds into the goon’s chest. The rifle thumped quickly against Grant’s shoulder. The shells dispensed onto the forest floor, covering his feet until the magazine had emptied. Grant tossed the rifle aside and then reached for his pistol, firing into the night. Someone was screaming now. It was him.
Grant’s throat grew raw from the bloodcurdling cry, and when the gunshots ended and nothing but his voice remained, he collapsed to his knees. Bullets entered the tree and ground next to him, but Grant didn’t move.
He let the gunfire surround him, the inevitable fate of death circling. He saw Ellen and Annie as clear as day. They were calling out to him, beckoning him to come and join them in the abyss. He was so close.
But then the faint wail of sirens pulled Grant back and ended the barrage of gunfire. It sounded far away at first but grew louder.
The flashlights from the thugs turned off, and through the thicket of trees and shrubs, Grant saw red and blue lights flashing. He planted one foot in front of him and went to push himself up when a sharp pain bloomed from the back of his head and planted him face first into the dirt.
The ground felt uneven and the world spun. He couldn’t feel his legs or arms anymore. His vision went in and out, but just before it went completely black, he saw a pair of shoes. And then another sharp pain in the back of his head. And then black.
13
Throbbing, aching, numbing pain. It started in the very back of Grant’s skull, spread down his back, and went straight through to his heels. His hands and feet tingled with pins and needles. It was dark. Pitch black.
Grant lolled his head back and forth a few times, disoriented and unsure if he was sitting down or standing up. He wasn’t sure if it even mattered anymore. Had he died? And if he had, where was he now?
It’d been a long time since those Sunday church and family days, and Grant wasn’t sure if salvation was in his cards. He thought of the women in the back of that truck who were gunned down by the mindless thugs that stole them from their homes. Dead because Grant pulled the trigger.
A door opened, and a blinding white light accompanied it. Grant turned his head away, his eyes shut tight.
“Don’t look so melancholy, Detective. Brooding doesn’t suit you. You don’t have the stature for it.”
The voice echoed, like it was at the end of a tunnel. But it was loud, closer than Grant would have liked. He tried to speak but fumbled with his tongue. It was heavy, like a piece of metal or concrete.
“Drink,” the voice said. “You’ve had quite the past few days.”
A straw was thrust into Grant’s mouth and he sucked down the liquid greedily, draining it until nothing but air sprayed his tongue. He licked his lips and his vision cleared. He blinked rapidly and when he moved his legs, he realized he was bound.
Rope cut into his ankles and wrists, and the chair he was tied to rocked as he tried to wiggle free. And as he did so, one of the chair legs bumped into something. Grant looked down, his eyes unsure of what he’d just seen. It was another leg. But it wasn’t his.
Grant examined the rest of the floor. More legs. More arms. More bodies. Dozens of bodies. They were naked and covered in lime. Decomposing, bits of flesh rotting from the bones and atrophying muscles. Their mouths were agape and their eyes open. He was sitting in the middle of a graveyard.
“I hope you don’t mind the company,” the voice said, but this time the voice had a body attached to it. It stood in front of the large white light that cast his entire body into shadow.
And that was when Grant noticed the walls around him and the steep slope on which the voice stood. The grave he was in had already been dug, and he was willing to bet that he’d be joining the bodies soon enough.
Grant had been stripped of his clothes, his badge, and his gun. He sat naked and bound, shivering and sweating in a pile of death, waiting for his turn to die.
But slowly, the thoughts of how he arrived came together. Grant remembered the thugs he was with in the woods; he remembered the gunshots, and then the police sirens. But he had never heard that voice before. It was well spoken, older, and very American.
Did Rick and Mocks make it out okay? Did the kids that he had pulled from that cellar make it out alive? Did Annie? He glanced back up to the voice as the man moved closer.
“Who—” Grant’s voice cut out, and he lowered his head. He sounded so weak, so tired. He cleared his throat and lifted his head to try again. “Where is my partner?”
“Oh, we’ll get to her in a minute,” the voice said, making his way down the slope into the pit. “But first I just want to take a minute to congratulate you. It’s not every day someone is able to disrupt my plans so vehemently. This was supposed to be a special day for me, but I’m afraid you’ve ruined it.” The closer he moved, the larger he grew. Well over six feet, with quite a bit of girth around his mid-section.
“Half of the city’s police officers will be looking for me,” Grant said. “Even if you kill me, they won’t stop until they’ve caught you, and after what I found in that sawmill, you’re going to be in jail for a very long time.”
The man stepped around to Grant’s back and chuckled. “If the police ever found me, the kids at the sawmill would be the least of my worries.”
Thick, meaty hands gripped Grant’s shoulders and he felt paralyzed, helpless as slow, firm circles were rubbed into his skin.
“Quite the body on you,” the voice said, and then leaned down and whispered into Grant’s ear. “I don’t usually go for something so seasoned, but it would be a shame to waste you.”
Grant rolled his head away and the voice laughed, slapping his shoulders hard.
“Just poking a little fun,” the voice said, circling Grant, who continued to shiver. “You are quite too old for me. Though I understand I’m in no position to talk.”
And then, when the man turned and stopped where the light caught his face, Grant got his first good look. He was old, to be sure, but nothing like he would have imagined. The man was preserved, like the dead bodies around him. The decay was slow, and the old man had done what he could to delay it, but in those efforts he only accentuated what he had tried to hide.
The old man did have hair, but it was slicked back. And he wore a wife beater and a fine gold watch on his wrist, with a few rings on his fingers. His pants and shoes were expensive, and he looked down at Grant like a piece of property.
“Some of these are men that you killed, and others…” The old man circled his hands in the air. “Well, occupational hazards.”
The questions made Grant’s head hurt, and he shut his eyes to try and focus on the matter at hand. And that was trying to get out of this alive.
The old man smiled and then walked back up the slope. “You have two options, Detective. The first is to rot in this pit with the rest of the dead. The second is to accompany me to dinner. I have quite a few questions to ask you, and I was hoping to get the answers from you personally. What do you say?”
Grant shook his head. “You think you will get away with this, but you’re wrong. I’ve gotten this close, and my partner will too. You’re going to lose.”
The old man stopped at the top of the slope and looked back down to Grant, a sad smile on his face. “Detective, I have been doing this longer than you have been alive. I’m sorry to say that you’re late to the party. And if there is one thing I’d hope you’d learned by now, especially judging by your predicament, it’s that I don’t lose. Ever.” He walked away, out of sight, but then called out at the last minute. “I await your answer in the morning. Good night, Detective Grant. Sleep tight.”
The door clanged shut and the spotlight shut off, casting Grant back into darkness. He couldn’t see the bodies on the floor anymore, or even his own legs. He had reached the underworld. And he had just met the devil.
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Deadly Webs: Unwoven
Two Years Ago
Cigarette smoke filtered through the air, and forced laughs masked the fatigue and loneliness of the late hour. The clock on the wall ticked closer to last call, and the bar’s patrons swayed back and forth, beer bottles and glasses grasped loosely in their hands, everyone doing their best to numb the realities that waited for them after the tab had been paid.
Neon lights of pinks blues and reds illuminated the yellowed walls, stained from decades of heavy smoke, and the cracks along the concrete floor. Someone had flipped the old jukebox in the corner to a Moody Blues song, “Nights in White Satin.”
The lyrics drifted between the empty barstools and slurred conversations. A woman on the far end of the bar near the exit threw her head back and cackled at something a man in a trucker hat said.
Like the bar itself, the people inside it were broken and decayed. Some on the inside, some on the outside, some both. But everyone shared in commiseration of forgetting the past. Or in the case of Detective Chase Grant, gulping down
enough liquid courage to face it.
A slew of empty glasses covered the stained wooden bar top in front of Grant. He scrunched his nose as he caught another whiff of mildew that drifted up from behind the bar. He sat hunched over as he examined the remining whiskey of his eighth drink.
Liquor slushed through his veins, and he swayed on the bar stool. Drunkenly, he picked at the wedding band on his left hand, the metal warm from his skin. His eyes watered at Ellen’s memory, but he quickly blinked them away. He was almost there. Just a few more. He drained the glass, then ceremoniously slammed it on the bar.
Ice ejected from the glass and shattered on the floor. He felt eyes on him, and caught the bar tender throwing a heavy side eye. The bouncer at the front door pushed off his stool, crossed his arms, and stared Grant down from across the room. But Grant simply partnered the empty with its fallen comrades and pushed the sweaty bangs of black hair off his forehead, slicking his wavy locks backward.
“Hey.” Grant motioned to the bartender, his tongue heavy. “Whiskey.”
The barkeep turned his head toward Grant as he wiped down a glass, then up to the clock on the wall that ticked past one-thirty a.m. “Sorry, buddy. You’re done.”
Grant exhaled and rubbed his eyes. Everything blurred and the liquor that had flowed so freely now turned his muscles to stone. He sagged on the barstool, and when he attempted to move his foot slipped. He smacked his hands on the bar for support, but body and gravity conspired against him and he landed hard on his side.
The floor shifted like a ship deck as Grant pushed himself to his hands and knees. His stomach lurched, and he forced himself to his feet before he puked. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, and keeping that whiskey in his stomach.
