“Wow,” he said. “Did you guys all bring your dancin' shoes or what?”
Patrick's face reddened. It was way too much stuff for a church trip.
“They're having a talent show,” Dean spoke up. “And so, I told the guys they should bring some stuff, I don't know, just for fun. You know, like guitars and stuff. Sorry Mr. Hall, I guess we should have thought it through a little more.” He smiled.
Gary didn't know what to say. How do you tell teenage kids not to participate in church events?
“Oh, come on Dean, I'm only kidding,” Gary said. “You guys take as much stuff as you need. But, you may want to take the Suburban, Patrick. I can drive your car a couple days.”
“Really, dad? You don't have to—”
“Take it. Like I said, there's no law saying I can't drive my old Tempo around, is there?”
Patrick was flustered. If he took the Suburban, his dad could more easily find out where they really went. What if the campground is muddy and the Suburban gets too dirty? What if they took it to a car wash before returning it and it comes back too clean? What if his dad checks the mileage? It was too late for all that now.
“Thanks, Dad!” was all he said.
“Where the hell is John?” Patrick said a few minutes after his father had gone back inside and they had moved their bags to the Suburban.
“Don't look at us,” Tim said. “That's your boy.”
Dean laughed.
“What does that mean?”
“I'm just saying, if someone is going to know where he's gonna be, it's you. Can you argue with that?”
He thought about it. “No, I guess not,” he said with a laugh.
“Has anyone called him?” said Tim.
“Yeah, three times,” he said. “Okay,” he continued, “we need to go get him, I guess.” We're supposed to be at the church soon, and my mom is looking at us through the blin—don't fucking look!”
Dean and Tim had both turned to look.
“Jesus,” Patrick said. “Let's go get him.”
Tim called shotgun and climbed in the front seat of the Suburban. Dean climbed in the back. Patrick went inside to tell his mother that John needed them to come get him. After a minute, he returned to find the back of the Suburban had been left open. Grumbling, he shut it and climbed in the driver's seat.
The night before he was supposed to leave for Coheelee Creek with his friends, John had been lying in bed thinking. Not of the upcoming trip, but of how badly he wanted to expose Ronnie as the snake he truly was. It made John sick to watch his poor mother get treated that way. He felt sure that if she knew about Ronnie stealing so much money from him, she would break it off for good. They could get assistance if it came to that, but by God, she deserved better.
The next morning, as he was getting ready for the trip, John could hear his mother and Ronnie arguing loudly in the living room. He zipped up his pack, grabbed his Atlanta Falcons hat, and walked down the hall and stood just outside the door to the living room.
“How could you be so stupid?” Ronnie said.
John's fists clenched.
“I'm sorry,” his mother said. “It must have been the antibiotics.”
“I swear to God, woman, you fucked up big this time,” Ronnie said, and from behind cover, John watched him raise his hand against her.
“Don't fucking think about it!” John screamed, coming from behind the wall, his fists still clenched.
“John,” his mother said with a shaky voice. “Don't talk to your—don't talk to Ronnie like that!”
“My what? My father?” He pointed at Ronnie. “This rat mother fucker is not my father.”
Ronnie backed away from her and lunged across the room towards John.
“Ronnie!” John's mother screamed.
Ronnie crossed the living room in two large strides and pinned John against the wall with one hand, lifting John three inches off the ground and tearing a hole in his Fight Club t-shirt. John looked over his shoulder at his mother's desperate, yet sadly apathetic, facial expression.
Before giving Ronnie a second to speak, threaten him in some way, John brought his knee up into Ronnie's balls so hard that he could feel them move through his pants. Screaming, Ronnie dropped John, and John picked up his bag and ran out the front door.
Patrick had only just turned the Suburban onto John’s street when he saw him. John was walking with a large backpack on his back and another bag in his hand. He looked upset. Patrick pulled up next to him and tapped the horn. Startled, John didn't recognize the vehicle at first, but once he realized who it was, he quickly climbed in the back seat and tossed his bags into the back.
“Thanks,” John said.
“What happened, man?” he asked. “We've been waiting on—” and then he put the pieces together. Ronnie. Something had happened with Ronnie. “Never mind that, you ready for this trip?”
“Hell yeah. I'm ready to get away from here. Maybe forever.”
Dean smiled at John. “I feel you on that one.”
Patrick put the Suburban on the highway headed toward Georgia, and the trip was under way.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Those boys were on their way to the greatest horror Early County has ever seen. I've since been asked if I believe in fate. Was that the only explanation for how things could have turned out the way they did? All I can say about that with any real certainty is that those boys must have done some terrible things in a previous life, if, of course, you follow that line of thinking. Me, I reckon it falls on Early County and the state of Georgia somewhat, being so ignorant to it. The newspapers said that it had been right in front of our eyes. How could we have missed it? To be honest, I've thought about that every day for the past twelve years. I've thought about what I'll say if’n when I go on this talk show. But I do know this: those woods are evil. Be it the cause or the product, I don't know. But there's forces out there that I can't explain. And of course, that goddamned Goatman.
Once the boys had made it safely out of the city limits without being spotted by anyone they knew, Patrick pulled the Suburban into a gas station to top off the tank.
Opening his door, Tim said, “I just find it so hard to believe that we have to sneak around like this just to go camping. I mean, I know we're gonna get blazed out there, but our parents don't have to know all the details.”
“I know,” Patrick said, picking up the handle on the gas pump and putting it into the tank. “But like I've said, my mom would never let me go if she knew where we were going.”
“Mine either,” John said.
“But why?” asked Tim. “What's the big deal?”
Patrick shrugged. “Afraid it's not safe I guess. Plus, there are rumors that sexual predators go out there a lot.”
“You're saying that wrong,” John said. “The rumors are that gay men go out there to screw. Like at the Westgate trail.”
“Whatever.”
Dean stood off to the side, arms folded. In truth, he was actually kind of scared after reading what he had about the covered bridge and the Goatman. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell the rest of them what he knew but, ultimately, he changed his mind, deciding that it wasn't the time for that.
The gas pump clicked off and Patrick went inside to pay with John trailing him. Dean and Tim looked at each other.
“Wonder if they're gonna screw,” Tim said.
“You're sick,” Dean said, laughing.
The Suburban headed east on Highway 52, and the tunes were blasting. Patrick had plugged his iPod into the sound system and the current song was Freak on a Leash by Korn. The boys sang karaoke to the song shamelessly.
In a pause between songs, John thought he heard a thump come from behind his seat. He looked at Dean, and said “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“I don't know, a thump.” John turned around, but he couldn’t see anything besides all their bags, which were stacked so high that it was impossible to see out of the back window. Glanci
ng over their bags, John did see something that caught his eye. A book that he had loaned Patrick months ago was shoved into the side pocket of Patrick's bag—Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk.
“Hey Pat,” John said. “Did you ever finish Lullaby?”
Patrick turned around slightly to see what John was talking about. “Oh yeah, man, I brought it to give it back to you. Sorry it took so long, I'm terrible at remembering shit.”
“What did you think?” Dean asked.
“It wasn't Fight Club, that's for sure. But it was still really interesting.” Patrick said. “Like, it started out strong, but the finish was kinda dumb.”
“I guess I get what you're saying,” John said. “I should have brought you Survivor. That one is awesome.”
“Yes!” Said Tim. “I love that one.”
Dean said, “Can I see that book?”
“Sure,” John said, reaching into the pocket of the bag and handing him the book.
“Thanks,” he said. He opened the book and began reading.
After some time—and a large sum of heartily sung karaoke songs—the boys reached the Chattahoochee river.
“This is it,” Patrick said. “Once we cross this bridge, we're in Georgia.”
Tim started singing “Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee… something, something… hairy coochie!” He laughed as if it were the funniest thing anyone had ever said.
Dean found a slip of paper on the seat next to him and shoved it into his book. “Do we need to get anything from a store?” he asked. “Cause I don't want to have to leave once we get there.”
Patrick stared forward in concentration. “Yeah,” he said. “But I think we may have passed them all.”
“No,” John said. “There's a little gas station right where we turn on the left. I mean it's a real Texas Chainsaw Massacre type of place, but you can buy shit there.”
The bridge was long, and the water was blinding, shining reflective rays off the sun. Patrick thought the water looked amazing. He wondered if the water at Coheelee Creek would look that good.
Shortly after having crossed the bridge, he saw the road the gas station was on and pulled the Suburban into a parking spot. “This is it,” he said. “Last chance to buy whatever you want.”
They all piled out of the vehicle and gazed at the building. It was a very old place; the wood paneling was mostly rotted and peeling back. The windows had bars across them, and out by the road, there was a single gas pump.
He led the way inside, and the other three followed him. Immediately upon entering the building, the smell of cigar smoke knocked them back like a wave.
The man behind the counter looked up from his paper at the crowd of teenagers. “Whatcha need?”
“Oh, hey,” John spoke up. “We’re just getting some food, thank you.” He sounded nervous.
“Need any milk?” The sweaty man in the stained wife-beater asked.
“Milk?” John said.
“You fuckin’ deaf?”
“No sir,” Patrick said. “I don't think we need any milk.” Dean and Tim exchanged glances that said let's hurry and get out of here.
The group hastily found what they wanted: energy drinks, candy, and other small things they hadn't thought to pack (or rather, didn't have a chance to) and approached the counter.
“Sure you don't want no milk? That's what most people come in here want. We got the best milk you’ll ever drink. Has healing powers, so they say.” He pointed to a small cooler next to the counter stocked with mason jars filled with milk.
“I'm pretty sure,” he said, glancing at the jars filled with the white liquid. It didn't look like regular cow’s milk to him. Maybe goat milk? He decided he didn't want to know.
“Thas’ ok,” the man said. “Where you boys headed?”
“Camping,” Dean said abruptly. The man looked taken aback.
“Goin’ t’see the ole covered bridge, are we? Maybe try to find that crazy old Goatman?” He laughed a strange smoker’s ramble and began coughing harshly, spit flying everywhere.
Patrick was growing impatient. “How much do I owe you?”
The man looked at all the items in one sweeping glance. “Eighteen bucks’ll do,” he said, stifling more coughs.
Patrick dropped two tens down on the counter and turned for the door. He wasn't worried about his change. He just wanted to get the fuck out of there.
Once they were all outside, he asked, “What the hell is the goat man?”
“I'll tell you later,” Dean said.
Using the wireless key fob to unlock the doors, the group were in the process of getting into the Suburban when they heard a noise. A large semi-truck was careening down the road and had locked up the brakes. The trailer attached to the cab was swaying from left to right in quick violent jerking motions.
“Holy shit!” Tim yelled. “It's gonna tip over!”
Dean turned and looked across the street. He had seen movement in the trees.
“Run!” Patrick screamed as the trailer flipped on its side and began scraping the asphalt and gravel, sliding towards the gas station. The four boys scrambled as far away as they could and watched in horror as the trailer took out the single gas pump. Liquid spewed out in all directions, but there was no fire, no explosion. The pump significantly slowed the trailer, and it stopped to a dead halt three feet from the back of Gary Hall’s prized Suburban.
Several seconds passed before anyone said anything. Finally, in a panicked voice, Patrick said, “We have to leave… now.”
“Leave?” John said. “We can't leave! We have to see if the driver is okay. We have to know what happened. We have to—”
“The cops will be here any minute!”
“Exactly! They'll want to talk to witnesses.”
“Right, John. They'll want to talk to us. To bring a camera crew and interview us, so they can put it on the fucking six o'clock news, so fucking Ronnie can watch it with his dinner and come out here and kill you. Or worse, send you to that boot camp he's always talking about.”
Behind him, Dean and Tim exchanged glances. John stood still with his fists clenched, fighting back tears. He knew Patrick was right, but it didn't make what he'd said hurt any less. Patrick’s face had an expression that said I'm sorry, but you know it's true.
“Yeah,” John said. “Okay, let’s go.”
CHAPTER NINE
Sheriff Paul Stanton sat on the john reading the classified ads. Someone's trash is someone else's future trash, he thought. There were advertisements for old cars, piano lessons, and of course, free kittens. But there was something else too.
Something odd.
‘Have you seen the Goatman?’ read the title of an advertisement spot, followed by:
‘Don't look into his eyes.’
And that was all. “Who pays for this shit?” Stanton said aloud to the empty room as he set down the paper and reached for the toilet paper. Just as he was standing to pull his pants up, there was a knock on the door.
“The hell is it?”
“Sir, there's a problem.”
“I'm shittin’, Benny. For Christ’s sake!”
He could hear the deputy sigh from the other side of the door.
“Sir, I'm sorry, but an eighteen-wheeler went and smashed into Floyd’s Market.”
He opened the bathroom door. “Is anyone hurt?”
“We don't know for sure. Floyd said there was some kids who’d come in his store and was leavin’ when it happened. Says the trailer damn near turned ‘em into hot cakes.”
“But they're okay?” he asked as he strode across the room to grab his hat and keys.
“That's what I'm saying, sir. They've left. He said they was some shady boys, acting funny the whole time they was in his store. And he says they just left after the crash, like they was running from the Devil, he says.”
He picked up his insulated mug of coffee and took a sip, noting that it was strange to hold something metal in his left hand without it clacking against his r
ing. Thank Susan for that. Susan and her goddamn drinking problem. Susan and her credit card maxing. Susan and her fucking other men.
“Sir?” Benny said.
He blinked. “Yeah. Yeah. Let's go. We can take my car.”
Paul pulled his cruiser into the far side of the parking lot, and they got out and surveyed the scene.
“These good-for-nothin’ reporters!” Benny snarled. “How do they beat us to everything?”
He thought, I'm shittin’, Benny, but instead he said, “I have no idea. Honestly it makes me wonder sometimes whether they are the ones causing the problems.”
Just then the owner of the gas station, Floyd, walked around the corner of the building, waving his hands in the air. “Over here!” he called. “I'm the owner! Over here!”
“Damnit Floyd, we know who you are,” he called. “There ain't but two gas stations in this town, and you got one of ‘em here.”
Benny tried to put on his best Serious Deputy stare but found it hard to keep a straight face after Stanton’s outburst. The sheriff wasn't a man of many words. In fact, in the years he had worked under him, he had come to find that he seemed to (subconsciously or otherwise) pick and choose carefully the words he would say, as if he had a daily limit he was afraid of approaching. There it would be, six o'clock at night, the phone rings, and he couldn't say anything because, damnit, he just talked too much at work and crossed a threshold. In most cases, a mere grunt might replace a word as simple and non-taxing as yes. It just seemed that Stanton had just used up his daily quota. It was no secret that Paul didn't care much for Floyd or his, in Stanton’s words, hick-ass market. They’d had their run-ins.
“Well, are ya gonna just yell at me, or are ya gonna do somethin’, Sheriff?”
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