Blood Feud (Little Town)

by JD Nixon

  “This here is one of our paths,” Denny explained, pointing with a dirty-nailed finger to a squiggle of a line he’d drawn on the paper. “The farm is up in that direction.” He waved vaguely southward with the same finger.

  “It’s a long way up the mountain,” noted the Sarge, strong scepticism in his voice.

  “It’s the most distant one we have. I like it the best because there’s always a good supply. The others are too lazy to climb so high.”

  “How many of these ‘farms’ do you have,” asked the Sarge.

  “Um . . . about four or five,” he replied evasively.

  “How long have they been in operation?” I queried.

  “Forever.” We stared at him. Somehow I doubted the earliest settlers in these parts would have been growing dope. “I mean, since I was born,” he clarified.

  “All right,” said the Sarge. “Where’s this other path, and what’s so special about it that you need to show us?”

  “Here,” he jabbed at the paper. “It’s not one of our paths.”

  “So?” dismissed the Sarge. “You’ve found some kind of path made by animals. Why on earth did you think that would be of interest to us?”

  Denny seemed a little thrown by the Sarge’s overt hostility. “I followed the path wanting to know where it went because it wasn’t one of ours. And that’s when I found it.”

  “Found what, Denny?” I asked him for the second time.

  “The place.”

  “What place?”

  His face took on an almost frightened expression as he struggled with his inarticulateness. “I don’t know what it is. Sort of rock walls reaching up high and curving over.”

  The Sarge’s glance at me was loaded with frustration. “You mean, you found a cave?”

  “Not a cave.”

  “God, why are you wasting our time on this rubbish?” the Sarge exploded. “Do you honestly think Tess and I want to tramp through the bushland to look at some interesting rock formation you’ve found? We’re not on a bloody field trip.”

  Denny cowered a little at his anger, turning his pleading eyes on me. “Please, Tessie. It’s the writing.”

  “There’s writing on the rock walls?”

  “Yes,” he said, relieved he was finally being understood.

  The Sarge and I exchanged another silent glance and then I shrugged, picking up my backpack.

  “I’m curious,” I said to him.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he reminded me sourly, donning his own backpack.

  “Cats have nine lives.”

  “Always the smartarse, Fuller.”

  We headed off, following Denny. He kept checking behind himself as if worried we’d give up on him. The path he led us on was narrow and overgrown with bushland, testament to the fact that it was one of the lesser used Bycraft escape routes.

  It was hard-going. We dripped with sweat and I didn’t know about the Sarge, but my feet already hurt from the tramp up the mountain. Now they also loudly expressed their displeasure at my insistence on further walking, especially considering we still had the walk back down the mountain ahead of us. My backpack felt like a leaden weight, my lower back protesting with every step. I began to think very fondly of having a long, bubbly bath.

  After about ten minutes, Denny turned into the bush following what was only the barest hint of a pathway.

  “This is the other path. The one that’s not ours,” he said, picking up his pace. At some point since we’d started, the Sarge had slipped his gun from its holster, the set of his shoulders showing his tenseness. He was expecting an ambush at any minute. Deferring to his lead, I unsheathed my knife as well.

  Denny stopped suddenly and turned back to us, his finger to his lips. “We need to be quiet now,” he warned, walking stealthily through the bushland.

  After clambering over yet another pile of rocks, our final destination came into view in front of us. Denny had been right – it was not a cave. A natural rock wave on either side of a flat space reached up to almost meet at the top, a slither of sunlight filtering through the gap, brightening the roomy space. It was an impressive structure, but it became immediately apparent that Denny had not begged us to come here solely to admire the majesty of nature.

  “Oh my God,” said the Sarge in a muted tone as he looked around, reholstering his gun.

  My heart began to hammer uncontrollably as I did the same, sliding my knife back into its sheath.

  Every spare centimetre of the rock walls that could possibly be reached by a tall human was covered in brightly coloured writing. The cheerfulness of the varying paint colours (orange, yellow, white, several different shades of blue and green) belied the nature of the messages, all of which were written in block capitals that bled into one another in a blinding kaleidoscope.

  I spun around, eyes assaulted by the colours. Discarded tubes of paint littered the floor.

  “I think we now finally know what happened to Mr Whittaker’s stolen paints,” I said in a hushed voice.

  “Someone’s been camping here,” noted the Sarge, crouching down next to where a couple of blankets formed a rough bed.

  “Young Kenny’s blanket,” I guessed.

  “And Mrs Villiers’ too, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Food scraps were carelessly strewn over the rock floor, bringing an unpleasant rotting smell to the space. Cigarette butts and matches were scattered on the floor in untidy heaps. Young Kenny’s jacket was thrown across the blankets, smelling of sweat and something else very nasty.

  I walked around the space reading the writing on the walls. On one wall, phrases such as, “Redeem the demon”; “Evil must be beaten”; “Blood gives purity”; “Peace has been promised”, were overlaid with angry black writing that slashed across the colourful words with ugly darkness: “Angels lie”; “Stop telling me what to do”; “Am I the demon?”; “False angels”; and an ominous, “Get out of my head”.

  “Dylan’s bolthole?” asked the Sarge, joining me in my reading task.

  “Most definitely, but maybe he has a couple of them?”

  “Some of the food scraps look reasonably fresh.”

  I walked over to a small pile of ash near one of the walls and reached out a tentative couple of fingers. “Still warm, Sarge. From either last night or this morning.”

  “He’s around here somewhere then,” he murmured, absorbed in reading the rantings on the walls. “Maybe even close by.”

  A second later he exclaimed in disgust, bending over to examine something lying on the floor.

  “What is it?” I asked, and both Denny and I moved closer.

  “Dead possum. God, the stench!”

  “It’s been warm lately,” I observed.

  “This place smells like a charnel house.”

  “I know. It’s foul. It’s making me feel sick.”

  “Oh, there’s another one.” He crouched down next to the other poor little body. “It looks ravaged or something.”

  “Maybe he’s been eating them?”

  “Or practising on them.”

  “Sarge, what a horrible thought.”

  He rummaged in his backpack and brought out the smallest of his three expensive cameras. When I raised my eyebrows at him, he shrugged sheepishly.

  “I thought I might take some snaps while we were up here.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right, because that’s what you do when you’re on a search. You stop for a pic for your photo album, just for the memory.”

  “I would appreciate less sarcasm, thanks, Fuller. This camera is going to come in handy, so I was right to bring it,” he said. He began to take snaps of the walls and the stolen items.

  When a wave of stink wafted over to me with the breeze, I decided I couldn’t stand another second in the malodorous space, my stomach churning. I walked back outside to the path to breathe in some fresh air. With my hands on my hips, I scanned the surrounding bushland. Dylan was out there somewhere.

  I wondered about his current
mental and physical state, and whether we’d ever be able to find him in this often unfriendly environment. The brutal fact was that we were running out of time today to do anything. It was already past three o’clock, and we needed a good couple of hours to get back down the mountain before the sun set on us. We soon would have to abandon Dylan’s hideout and tip off the dee team for a return visit tomorrow, probably with forensics in tow. And oh boy, wasn’t everyone going to be pleased with that, I thought, not without a little smirk.

  A rustling behind me had me spinning around, my hand automatically on my knife. A man stood in front of me, a combined expression of fear and distrust on his face. The knife he held tightly in his right hand was wickedly serrated – some kind of fishing knife. I slid my own knife out of its sheath again and we faced off, neither of us moving.

  It was Dylan.

  Chapter 34

  He was filthy, his hair matted and tangled, his facial hair sparse and straggly. Open sores festered on his bare feet, and his arms, neck, and face were covered in scratches, some deep, presumably from his ventures through the bush. He smelt bad, like rotting meat, just as Phoebe had said. His odour hung as thick as a cloud, a repulsive combination of sweat and something organic decomposing in the heat.

  He still wore the t-shirt and jeans Kevin and I had seen him in all those nights ago. They were begrimed and crumpled, a dark stain covering his t-shirt and caking his jeans. I choked in air when I realised it was most probably Miss G’s blood and one of the sources of his awful reek.

  “Dylan,” I said, holding my free palm up in conciliation. He flinched at that small action, so I was careful not to move more than necessary. “My name’s Tess. I don’t mean you any harm. You’re going to be okay, I promise. I’ve come to find you and take you back home. Your great-uncle is very concerned about you. We’re all concerned about you.”

  I heard his sharp intake of breath even from where I stood.

  “Deceiving angel,” he whispered hoarsely, slashing his knife hand upwards, his fear swiftly turning to anger. But he didn’t step forward.

  “I’m not an angel.” I kept my palm up and my voice as calm as possible, but it alarmed me that he’d called me that.

  His face twisted. “No. No, you’re no angel. You’re a false angel. A lying angel. A demon in disguise.”

  “No, Dylan –”

  “Don’t say my name! Don’t ever say my name. When you say it, I know you’re tricking me. I know you’re a demon.”

  “I’m sorry.” My heart thudded, my mouth so dry I could barely swallow. Calling me a demon was even worse than him calling me an angel.

  I’d met plenty of irrational people and people strung out on booze and drugs in my life, but I’d never come in contact with someone in the middle of a severe psychotic episode. I didn’t know what to say or do, except to reassure him I posed no danger and somehow try to alert the Sarge without freaking out Dylan.

  “I was warned about you by the real angel. We will never say your name, she told me. You’re not worthy of a name until you redeem the demon, she told me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. I didn’t dare twist my head away from him while he held that knife. I’d seen what he’d done with it. But I tried a conversational, “Sarge.”

  Dylan didn’t seem to notice. “She warned me that when my name was spoken, it meant a demon was trying to trick me. Trying to pretend they were an angel.” He jabbed his knife in my direction, taking a small step forward. I took one backwards.

  I tried again. “Sarge.”

  “The old lady asked my name, so I knew she was one of the demons. I had to redeem her by destroying her. Just as I was instructed to do.”

  That held my attention. I dared a question. “The old lady in the house asked you your name? You knew her?”

  “She pretended to help. She gave me food, but all the time she was plotting and planning against me. Do you understand? She wanted to know my name so she could say it.”

  Oh God, poor Miss G. Her kindness for a lost soul had killed her, I thought with immense sorrow.

  “I knew then she was a demon, so I redeemed her. But it didn’t work. The angel promised me peace, but I can still hear them talking to me.”

  “Voices talking to you?” I caught myself in time from adding his name. It was standard cop procedure to use people’s first names as often as possible to maintain their attention and try to connect with them.

  He momentarily closed his eyes with otherworldly fatigue – but too short a time for me to act. “So many of them. All the time. Talking, talking. It never stops. I’m so tired. The angel promised me peace.”

  “I mean it when I say I’m not here to harm you. I only want to get you some help from people who can stop the voices.”

  “Deceiving angel,” he hissed, moving forward again. “You lie, demon.”

  I took another step backwards and called out to the Sarge again, but my shout to him came out as a mere squeak.

  “I thought I found the real angel,” he said in a distracted voice. “So beautiful with long hair. She never asked my name. But she had no wings. I couldn’t understand it. And she wouldn’t tell me when the voices would stop.”

  Phoebe had been lucky that night, I thought as I edged away from him again.

  Dylan lunged towards me, his knife out in front. I parried his thrust with my own knife, the clanging of the blades loud in the quietness around us. We had a treacherous half-minute of sparring with our knives, both in danger of being injured at such close quarters. His stench was overpowering. I found it hard to concentrate on protecting myself while also gagging from the smell of death emanating from him.

  He was without trepidation or comprehension of consequences, and I feared hurting him and being hurt myself. All that made me more passive than I’d normally be in an attack situation. I guess I’d always thought that if I met someone who’d genuinely lost touch with reality, they’d look ‘crazy’, but Dylan’s eyes were lucid and shrewd. He truly believed what he was saying. He didn’t know he was psychotic, so carried the impetus of his self-belief. On top of his bush skills, that made him a formidable opponent. I’ll gladly admit at that moment I was afraid of him, and afraid for my own life.

  His next jab sent me stumbling backwards until I rammed up against a clump of thick, spiky bushes.

  “Demons must be redeemed,” he said, almost sadly, nodding his head in agreement with himself. “Name stealer. Soul stealer. Coming here to my home to destroy me.”

  “No, I’m here to help you, not destroy you.”

  “Lies!” He lurched at me again, and in my haste to retreat, my foot skidded out from me in the dirt and I tumbled down into the bushes.

  No, no, no, no! I berated myself, scrabbling to my feet.

  He thrust his knife at me and I twisted my upper body to avoid it, my ponytail tangling in the branches. I struggled to free myself, only serving to ensnare my hair further.

  “Sarge! Help!” I shouted in panic, tugging at my hair while desperately covering Dylan with my knife.

  “Demons must be redeemed.” He stepped closer, within slashing range.

  “Sarge!” I screamed, kicking out at Dylan. My boot connected sharply with his shin, saving myself from a stab in the neck. He yelped in pain, the surprise on his face quickly replaced with anger. He jabbed out at me and I met his move with my knife, catching him on the forearm in a shallow slice.

  He stared at his wound, seemingly fascinated by the flow of his own blood from it. I took advantage of his distraction to kick out at him once more, trying to keep him at a distance until I could free my hair.

  Denny flew out from inside the cave. He stopped for an instant, taking in the situation, before rushing at Dylan.

  “Leave Tessie alone,” he yelled, aiming to shove Dylan away from me.

  “Denny, no! He has a knife!” I remember shouting, but later, when I had to recount it all in minute detail, it was almost impossible to recall exactly what happened. Everything from that
moment was a blur, it all took place so quickly.

  Dylan twisted away from me and lunged forward to grab Denny by his t-shirt. He yanked him forward and plunged his knife into Denny’s stomach with great force, brutally ripping upwards.

  I have never heard, and I never again want to hear, the sound that Denny made as that knife tore into him. It was an inhuman, animalistic scream of unspeakable suffering. Dylan pulled out the knife and looked at Denny with detached interest.

  Denny clutched the ugly gash in his stomach and sank to his knees, his shocked eyes locking on mine. Blood gushed between his fingers, soaking the ground around him and drenching his lower t-shirt and jeans.

  “Tessie . . .” he whimpered, collapsing on the ground. His face screwed up in agonising pain, but he kept his eyes on me, full of incomprehension and anguish.

  “It’s going to be okay, Denny. It’s going to be okay,” I promised, my voice trembling. I frantically pulled and jerked at my hair, frustrated by my helplessness to act while Denny bled into the dirt in front of me.

  “Shit,” summed up the Sarge, charging to the entrance, his camera dropped in horror. He pulled out his gun. “Drop the knife, Dylan. Step away from everyone and put your hands on your head.”

  Dylan glared at me, doubly angry. “He said my name. You told everyone my name, demon.”

  “Dylan, put the knife down now!” hollered the Sarge.

  “Stop saying my name!”

  He thrust his knife out at me again and it was only pure luck that I avoided it, deflecting the hit with my knife. I tore at my hair, trying to free myself.

  “Sarge, please,” I said, eyes frantically shifting between him and Denny. “He stabbed Denny. He needs help.”

  “Dylan –”

  “Sarge, please don’t say his name.”

  “Stop saying my name!”

  The Sarge and I exchanged frantic glances. “Put the knife down now and step away with your hands on your head.”

  The Sarge took a few cautious steps forward, his gun on Dylan.

  “Maybe you are the demon I was meant to redeem,” Dylan mused, head slightly tilted, looking at me as if I was a specimen between glass slides.