Sam was trying his hardest to get the girl to say, well, anything. He wasn't having any luck. The most he had gotten out of her was a shrug.
Then he struck a nerve.
“What can you tell us about the Goatman?” he asked her. She stopped walking.
“We don't talk about him,” she said. “Never.”
Sam looked at her for a moment, wondering what to say next. Patrick spoke for him.
“How much further? Dean needs help, he's still bleeding.”
“We're here.”
The girl pushed aside the bushes and began descending some wood planks that had been crudely placed into the side of a small hill. At the end of the steps was an old wooden cabin that reminded him of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.
An old man sat in a creaky rocking chair on the porch, smoking a cigarette. He wore denim suspenders over a red and black checkered flannel shirt. His glasses covered most of his face, and their lenses were so dirty, they looked yellow.
“Luna,” he barked. “Where you been girl? Ma is worried sick!”
“I got some lost people with me, Grandpa. Can't you see 'em?”
The old man took off his glasses and rubbed them on his dirty clothes. He spat on the floor of the porch. “I can't see shit, girl. You know that.”
“Well they're right there!” She pointed at the group of them.
“Hello, sir.” Patrick said. “We're so glad… Luna found us. We were lost out there, and we really need to use—”
“How many are ya?” Grandpa said.
“Sir?”
“How many of you are there?”
He looked around. “Well,” he said. “There's four of us here, including myself. And there was—”
“Another one, I know.”
“Is he here?”
“Yeah. He's here. Boy was lost as a run-over dog. But he's inside.” Grandpa spat again. “Reckon we'll have you for dinner. I know you're hungry.”
“We sure are,” Sam said.
“Really, I think what's most important is the phone,” Patrick said. “Dean here, he cut his leg pretty bad, and I think it's infected.”
“I'll get my son to look at the cut,” Grandpa said. “He's a bit of a medical expert. But you boys will eat. I won't take no.”
The interior of the cabin looked about as drab as the exterior, and there was a dank aroma in the air that reminded him of the day his Biology class had dissected baby sharks. Grandpa followed the boys in at a snail's pace, taking the rear.
“Ma!” he shouted in his croaky voice. “Get some food goin'! We got more company. Friends of the other boy!”
Dean found a chair and sat down, holding his leg at an awkward angle. He hissed in air every time he moved it.
Grandpa looked at Dean's leg. “Shame,” he said, before walking through the doorway into the adjoining room.
“Shame?” Dean said under his breath. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don't know,” Patrick said. “I think he's probably senile or some—”
“Don’t talk about Grandpa like that.” Luna was standing in the doorway, listening to their conversation.
“Oh, no,” John said. “They were just—”
“Heard 'em.”
Dean looked at Luna. “Where is the phone? We really need to make a call.”
Luna looked at Dean, then at Patrick, John, and Sam, turning her head slowly between each one.
“A phone?” Patrick asked. “You said you had one?”
Luna turned around and ran out of the room.
The sound of feet shuffling came from the other side of the house. A shambling shell of an old woman came creeping through the doorway Grandpa had left through. He thought she looked like the woman from that old painting of the couple in front of the farmhouse. All she needed was a pitchfork.
Without looking up from the floor, the woman said, “Sit.” Patrick and the rest of them found places at the table in front of them. The old woman walked out of the room and began making noise in the kitchen.
“Where the hell is Tim?” John said.
“I don't know,” said Patrick. “And it seems like these people are allergic to questions.”
Sam was sitting next to him, shaking. “Guys,” he said. “Do you think us burning that tree did anything to stop it?”
“Stop what?” Patrick said.
“The evil in these woods.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Elmer wanted to stop by his house and get his phone, but he knew he didn't have time. He was already almost too late. The coma was working against him. He didn't know how he knew the things he did, or why. He just knew that sometimes he knew things. And sometimes he could stop bad things from happening with that knowledge. Right now, he knew that he had to find Sheriff Paul Stanton in Blakely, Georgia.
The storm seemed to ease up the further he got from the hospital. Elmer felt terrible for stealing his mom's car, but she would understand…maybe. She had certainly seen him do strange, unexplainable things before. He was thankful that the tank was nearly full because he didn't even have a single dollar with him. There were a few quarters in the cup holder, though.
Elmer pulled into a gas station in Columbia, Alabama, just a couple of miles from the Alabama-Georgia border. Starving, he gathered the quarters and entered. The man behind the counter looked up from his paper but didn't speak. Elmer counted his money. A dollar seventy-five. He walked to the counter.
“Sir,” he said. “What can I get to eat for this? And can I maybe get a styrofoam cup or something like that for some water?”
The man eyed the quarters on the counter.
“Are you okay, kid? You look like boiled shit.”
“I'm just hungry.”
The man set down the newspaper. “Keep your money,” he said, reaching under the counter. “I got half a pizza here. You can have it. Was gonna give it to my dog anyway. Go get you a drink though.”
Elmer thanked the man. He walked to the cooler and grabbed a Monster energy drink.
“That kinda night?” the clerk said.
“You're damn right.”
The old woman—Ma—returned from the kitchen after a few minutes with a large pot. Steam rolled over the sides, emitting a foul, warm stench not unlike a dead skunk cooking on the side of the road .
“Pa! Pa! It's time to eat!” She set the pot down and wiped her nose with the back of her hand and snorted, causing a lumpy, dark, cancerous knot on her neck to jiggle.
Patrick gagged silently.
Luna walked into the kitchen, quiet as a mouse. She had bowls and spoons with her. Going around the table, she gave one of each to the boys and they thanked her but were not welcomed back.
Grandpa walked into the dining room, his thumbs tight beneath his suspenders, and sat at the far end of the table. He rubbed his red nose and sat in silence as he looked across each of the boys. “Hope you boys are hungry.” His words were dry and unpleasant. “Ma put a lot of effort into this meal.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “Thank you.”
“Luna,” Pa said. “Go get your brother.”
Luna grinned and walked out of the room.
“Where's Tim?” John asked.
“Your other friend?” Pa said flatly, making no eye contact. “He's not hungry.”
Dean shifted in his chair and let out a moan. His arm was starting to shake.
Luna returned to the dining room and rubbed her tongue against the front of her teeth. A large man in a once-white shirt followed her. He was so tall he had to duck when he walked through the door frame.
“This here is Jeb,” Pa said. “Say hi, Jeb. We got company.”
“Hi.” Jeb’s mouth hung loose as he exhaled loudly, his brow tight as he scowled at them.
“Jeb, here, is our little gifted one. He's a regular doc, he is. He'll take a look at your leg after dinner.” Pa tipped a steak knife at Dean’s leg.
“Th-thanks,” Dean said, and his tongue came out to lick his lips
. His right hand was still shaking, the pain was clearly getting to be too much.
Ma walked around the table, her heavy hips swaying as she dumped the dark, soupy substance into everyone's bowl. The boys thanked her. The stench climbed from the liquid and into their noses, clawing down their throats. They passed glances to one another and, in silent agreement, they all knew not to complain. Ma dumped the soup into her own bowl last before sitting down in her seat.
The room was dim and damp. The yellowed wallpaper was peeling at the corners and turning brown with rot. Candles provided the only light, making it hard to see anything with any real clarity. Patrick exchanged uncomfortable glances with the rest of the group, some of them too afraid to even look up from the soup.
Grandpa stood up at the end of the table, reaching up to scratch at his curly gray chest hair peeking out from his undershirt. “Time we say grace. We need to be thankful for everything we're given.” His voice came at a crawl, one scratched from years of tobacco use. “Ma, do you want the honors?”
“Yeah, Pa. I'll do it. Now sit down ‘fore you fall down.” Pa sat down, grumbling.
Ma bowed her head. “Thank you, oh Great One for all you've given us. The protection we've been allowed. The food you've provided. Help us to continue to serve in your honor.”
“Amen,” Pa said, his head slowly rising from a bow. “Now let's eat.”
Patrick didn't feel like eating at all, his stomach told him he’d sooner eat his shoe than that soup. He moved the slop around in the bowl, trying to see what actually was in it, but it was too dark in the room to tell and each time it moved the smell seemed to come again fresh, as if it had grown pointed legs and scaled down his nostrils.
Sam was making a face at him which said that he felt the same. He noticed that Dean and John were picking at their food also.
“There something wrong?” Jeb asked through a mouthful of soup, a brown string of it leaking down the corner of his wrinkled mouth.
“Oh,” Patrick said. “I'm just not very hungry. This trip has my stomach all in knots, you know? I'd really love to make that phone call.” Beneath the table he wrung his hands together.
Jeb slammed his spoon on the table so hard that one of the candles fell on its side, the flame went out and a small smoky trail sizzled.
Pa stared at him for a moment, then licked his spoon clean and pointed it at him. “Are you trying to hurt Ma's feelings? She made this meal out of the kindness of her heart! A lot of sacrifice goes into every meal around here. Have you ever thought about that? Have you ever thought about what it means to not be wasteful? No. You don't give a damn, do you? You're probably used to sitting on your mommy's couch, eating Cheetos out of a bag, licking your slimy little fucking fingers like the piggies you are.”
Patrick sunk down into his seat. His heart slammed in his chest, and he didn't have a clue what to say next. He felt his intestines start to turn like he could shit his pants right here and right now. If he could have picked up the spoon and started eating to stop the man from talking he would have, but his hand wouldn’t move.
John had both his hands on the arms of the chair, already half standing with a forced smile on his face as he spoke. “We'd really just like to get our friend and call for help. That's all. We're sorry if we come off as rude. We're just worried for our friend. And Dean's leg is—”
“Which one of you is Dean?” Jeb said, standing up and pushing his chair back in a jerky simultaneous motion that sent it clattering toward the ground and made them all jump.
“I am,” Dean said. His hand was shaking so badly that his spoon clacked against his bowl.
“Tell ya what,” Jeb said. “I'll take a look at that leg. Right now. Ease your mind a bit.”
“You'd do that? Thanks. It hurts pretty bad. I scraped it on a ro—”
“Yeah, yeah. Let's see it.” He grinned, showing a mouthful of rotted teeth.
Dean reluctantly stood up and lifted his leg until it was resting on the edge of his chair. Jeb walked over and placed a candle on the corner of the table, dust danced within the light.
“Set it up there,” Jeb said, and pointed a thick finger down at the table.
Dean did as he was asked.
Jeb looked at it for a moment, slowly nodding his heavy brow as if he was looking for just the right piece of the puzzle. Then he held up his large hands and clenched his fists together, his fingers all popping at once.
Dean’s lips puckered. “…wait.”
Jeb wrapped his fingers around the bloody place on Dean's leg. He started twisting it from right to left, and it immediately started to crack, the sound of celery snapping and crunching.
In pure shock, it was several seconds before Dean let out a wail that filled the house and made the other boys cover their ears.
They should have run. They should have thrown the table, or hurled their bowls or grabbed their chairs, but no one moved, frozen and eyes wide.
They only watched.
“Hmm,” Jeb said, and rubbed a thick and bloody finger beneath his chin. “I see the problem, and it's not good. Hold on just a second. I've got just the thing.”
Jeb walked over to a drawer and pulled it open. A metallic clang echoed throughout the dining room.
“What's that?” Dean said in a nervous voice, sweat pouring down his face now.
“It's just one of my instruments,” Jeb croaked, rubbing his throat. “Now let me get a closer look. You may want to bite down on something. I've really gotta prod in there.”
Dean closed his eyes.
Ma seemed unconcerned with what was happening, she turned toward a mirror that was close to her seat and began to adjust her hair, trying to keep it propped around a thin balding spot around the top of her head.
Patrick saw what was in Jeb's hand, and he screamed. It was too late. Jeb brought a meat cleaver down on Dean's leg with so much force that the bone broke just below the knee. A clean, smooth cut that could have only come from a butcher’s precision and years of practice. Blood sprayed in all directions, and Dean bucked like a pissed-off bull with its balls strapped up tight.
“Hold still!” Jeb screamed into Dean's face. “I'm not finished!”
The meat cleaver came down again. Patrick, John, and Sam were screaming. They stood up and backed away from the table, but the weakness in their knees held them like chains from moving any further.
Luna was underneath the table, she stuck her head out long enough to dip her spoon into Sam’s bowl and take a taste, grinning at one of the boys when they caught her and frowning when they didn’t grin back.
Tendons, bone, and blood flew across the room, slinging off the cleaver and hitting the walls to match the other rotten stains against the wallpaper. Jeb grabbed the leg by the foot and wiggled until it snapped off at the cut. Dean had vomited all over himself.
“There.” Jeb blinked hard and then slammed the chunk of meat onto the table, rattling the bowls with the impact. “I fixed your goddamn leg. Now shut up and eat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ronnie Garland sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner watching SportsCenter. The pile of empty beer cans on the end table was impressive. He had been drinking more than usual lately, after the unfortunate news about John's mother being pregnant with his child. She was so fucking stupid for allowing that to happen. The ESPN hosts were talking about how the Braves were making bad decisions. Again.
“What's new?” Ronnie said. He puffed his cigar. That was his other new thing. Smoking in the house.
The phone rang. Ronnie jumped and looked at the clock on the wall. “If this is one of your stupid fuckin' friends! Calling this late.” Ronnie slurred his words. He had temporarily forgotten that John wasn't even there.
Ronnie walked over to the cordless phone and picked it up, saying, “Do you know what time it is?”
“Is this John Queen's father?”
“Who's asking?”
“I'm sorry. This is hard for me to say. My name is Brother Jeff. I'm with the chur
ch.”
“Yeah? I'm his step-dad. What did he do wrong now?”
“Sir. I was going through some paperwork when I saw that your wife had signed John up for the trip. I also have slips for Patrick and Sam Hall, Dean Fredrick, and Tim Johnson.”
“Get to the point, Brother…”
“Jeff, yes… Well, none of those boys are with us. I was just calling all the parents to let them know. In case they didn't already, of course. I'm sorry it took us so long to—”
“What do you mean they're not with you?”
“I mean, they never got on the bus.”
Ronnie hung up the phone.
John's mother walked into the room in her nightgown. “What's going on?”
Ronnie, breathing heavily and using the wall for support, said, “Can we find out where John's phone is from the phone company?”
“Yeah,” she said. “But why? What is it?”
“I'm gonna kill that little shit. I told you he wasn't the angel you thought he was. Him and his friends played hooky on their little church trip. That's fine. When I find him, he won't sit down for the rest of the summer.”
“What are you going to do, Ronnie? You’ve been drinking, you can’t just—”
Ronnie closed the gap between himself and John’s mother in a matter of seconds. Using the back of his hand, he knocked her to the floor. She cried out in pain. Ronnie grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back so that she was looking him in the eye. “I can’t what?” he said.
Bleeding, crying, and convulsing, Dean was forced to finish his meal while the others watched. At one point, when he gagged and turned to puke, he was told that his friends would have to eat it if he did.
Patrick had a black eye. He had been headbutted by Jeb when he tried to protest Dean's amputation. Sam was hysterical, trying his best not to lose it.
“You see,” Grandpa said. “You boys do know how to have a nice quiet dinner. That's a good quality to have, just knowing when to shut the fuck up. Of course, some don’t have that quality about them automatically. They have to be taught, and hey, that’s okay, too.”
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