The hairs on my entire body stand on end as I watch them move.
Run, Rodney.
They stop abruptly, raise their spears, and take aim in my direction.
OK . . . so I should’ve run.
I turn back toward the RV park and haul ass.
Damien lets out this weird yodel, and the other hunters all respond in unison with a resounding, “CHEK-TAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”
My skin tingles as I expect at any second I’ll have several spears bursting through my chest. I’m running as fast as I can. My legs and lungs are on fire. Ears are throbbing so hard I can hear my own pulse.
The RV park is almost within reach.
I hear several small explosions behind me. I glance back, expecting a rainstorm of spears, but instead see a dozen clouds of ash, again dissipating like spent bottle rockets. I stop dead in my tracks, bewildered at why their weapons disintegrated in midair.
Damien and the hunters watch me with the snarling gaze of junkyard mutts trapped behind an invisible fence line. Some bare their glowing fangs, some mumble, some chant, and some remain motionless. I expect at any moment they’ll charge across the field and fight me hand-to-hand.
But instead, they do the opposite and fade back into the forest. Some glancing over their shoulders as they do.
Damien is the last to disappear.
“Run all you want, pussy!” he shouts. “But you’ll be dead before dawn!”
Yeah. Says the little bitch who ran away himself.
I continue toward the RV park.
“You hear me, Rodney?” Damien screams at the top of his lungs. “YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD!”
When I make it, I look back at the woods. They’re all gone now. Including Damien. For whatever reason, they didn’t follow me. And their weapons disappeared mid-air . . .
Why?
There’s more to this game than Jim Grimm let on.
I head into the park, careful to stay close to the exterior walls of the first trailer I come up to. Don’t want to risk getting spotted. My luck with the locals so far hasn’t exactly been stellar, and I don't want to take any chances.
Most of the trailers still have their lights off. Then again, that makes sense considering what time it most likely is—although the noise of the hunters would have woken most people. What I find most odd is that there’s only one automobile parked nearby—a beat-up old Ford. Either the owner’s the only one with a vehicle in the park, or the only one living in the park.
Most of the trailers are in rough shape. Mother Nature has had her way with them, and she wasn’t gentle about it. Some are surrounded by thick walls of grass. Some have vines snaking up their sidewalls, making the trailers appear more like ruins than inhabitable spaces. Several tall light posts shine down a yellowish-brown light, casting a murky brume over everything.
I wonder where Kylie disappeared to? Did she make it? Did something get to her? I’m not a very religious man, but right now, I’m praying to God she’s ok.
I slip around the corner and come to what appears to be the center of the park. There I come to the only trailer with its lights on—the same trailer Kylie, and I first saw when we got to the clearing. I press myself against its damp, aluminum walls. The dank aroma of old cigarette smoke, polyester, and mold is everywhere. I nearly gag. I move around to the back wall of the trailer, where I catch some activity near a large window—shadows pacing back and forth inside. Then voices. One male and one female. I creep up to the window and peek inside.
Kylie and Chase are very much alive! She stands with her arms crossed as Chase storms back and forth, gesturing erratically.
I’m about to tap on the window and call out their names when I feel something cold kiss the back of my neck.
“Unless you can outrun a double-barrel shotgun at close range,” says the creaky voice of an old man behind me, “I suggest you do exactly as I say.”
Chapter 15—Ancient Storytime
“Now put your arms up,” the old man says, “and move.” He jabs the barrel into the base of my skull, and I see stars. “I said move!”
“All right!” I do as told.
The old man walks me around to the front of the trailer. “Open it,” he says with a painful prod of the gun into the center of my spine. “It’s unlocked.”
I open the door, and I’m hit with that overwhelming stale odor of cigarettes and mold. The stench so strong, I wince. When Chase and Kylie see me, they stop mid-conversation.
“Rodney?” Kylie says, her face lighting up with relief.
She moves like she’s about to hug me or something when the old man barks, “No! The two of you—sit!”
Chase and Kylie retreat to a coffee-brown sofa, armrests black and dingy, just like the rest of the place. Near their feet is a worn coffee table adorned with a massive circular ashtray holding a mountain of twisted cigarette butts.
The old man sticks the barrel into the center of my back. I grimace as a spike of pain lights up my spine. “Go sit with them on the couch!”
I shoot him a dirty look as I squeeze in between Chase and Kylie.
The old man plops himself down on a rocking chair. It groans under his weight. His long, gray hair is matted, greasy, and clings to his scalp in thin bunches. His skin is weathered, pockmarked. He looks like an old-school rocker well past his touring days. He lights up a cigarette, hand shaking as he holds it to his crusty lips.
“Getting old”—he takes a puff—“sucks. Everything hurts. Everything creaks.”
I survey the room. Old faded pictures decorate the walls. Black and white photos of, no doubt, people who’ve come and gone in this old man’s life. He rests the shotgun on his lap, barrel still pointed in our direction. He blows out a cloud of smoke, coughs several times, and clears his throat.
“You might not feel so old if you’d taken better care of yourself,” Chase says, nodding toward the old man’s cigarette.
The old man swats the air in Chase’s direction. “Shut up, pretty boy. You’re lucky you made it this far yourself.” He props a crooked thumb against his chest and says, “I smelled the dried piss in your pants a mile away. If I smelled it, you know they smelled it, too.”
Chase turns red. Eyes his crotch, then exchanges looks with us, embarrassed.
“So what’s your name?” the old man asks me.
“Rodney.”
“Rodney . . . eh?” He leans forward in his seat, offers his hand. The cigarette bobs up and down in his mouth as he speaks. “Name’s Mac. Mac Wiley.” I hesitate, and he seemingly picks up on what I’m thinking. “It’s OK, son. I’m not going to shoot you . . . not yet,” he says with another chuckle.
We shake. His hand is cold and clammy. A wet, dead fish.
“And who exactly are you?” I ask. “Mac?”
“The maintenance man. I take care of odds and ends. Whatever needs to be done.” Mac leans back in his seat, takes another drag. “I was telling these two earlier that y’all have made it farther than anyone else has in years.”
“How did you know that I was outside your trailer?”
“Because they told me.” Mac nods toward the window. “Your hunting party. Last time I heard that much commotion from the Kenneh’wah, a man about your age fell at my feet right outside my front door.” He shakes his head as he recalls that event. “Poor fellow had about three arrow holes in his back.”
“Wait . . . Kenneh-what?” I ask.
“Kenneh’wah. Not Kenneh-what.”
“Whatever. Who are they?”
Mac freezes in his chair as if he heard a noise outside.
“What is it?” Chase asks, his words rushed. “Is it them?”
Mac relaxes, takes another drag of his cigarette. With a light chuckle, he replies, “If you mean them as in rats—yes. Those bastards are everywhere. Climbing inside my walls. Making tunnels in my insulation.” He suddenly rises and raps the end of the shotgun against his ceiling as if it were a broom. “Move somewhere else!” He shouts up at the roof as he kno
cks against it several more times. “There’s a whole goddamn forest out there for you! So, get out of my home, you hear me?”
Kylie, Chase and I look at one another. The expressions on their faces tell me that they’re thinking what I’m thinking.
I jump out of my seat, yank the shotgun from Mac’s hands, and point it at his face. “Now’s your turn to sit down, Grandpa.”
Mac freezes once again. A crooked smile forms on his face. He appears more amused than afraid. There’s a tinge of insult in his voice as he mutters, “Grandpa? Grandpa? Now that would imply that I got children, which I don’t.” He calmly sits down, snuffs out his cigarette, and leans back in his rocker. Folding his hands over his lap as if he’s about to tell us a bedtime story. “Well?” He gestures for me to continue. “Go ahead. Ask away. I know you have questions.”
“Who are these men hunting us?”
“I told you—the Kenneh’wah.” Mac smirks as he continues. “They’re the tribe that once inhabited these grounds centuries ago. They still think this is their land.”
“What do you mean once?”
“You don’t have to point that gun at me.” A taut grin stretches across Mac’s face. “I’m more than happy to tell you what you want to know. I haven’t had visitors since . . .” He trails off, scratches his chin. There’s a noise up in the ceiling that catches his attention. “God . . . damn . . . rats!” He starts to get up, but I shove him back down into his chair. His upper lip twitches. A scowl forms. There’s a wicked darkness in his eyes. Two bottomless pits, full of the vapid emptiness of a man who’s seen and done more than he’ll ever admit to.
I’ve seen that look before.
In the wild, distant eyes of serial killers on the news.
Blank gazes void of any remorse or emotional accountability for their actions.
I don’t trust him. Not one bit. The stale smell and ragged condition of this trailer confirm that he has been here a while. Judging by his haggard appearance, I doubt he gets out much.
“Go on.” I keep the gun on him.
Mac lets out an annoyed huff. “Back in the fifteen hundreds, this was Kenneh’wah territory. They were a small tribe. Kept to themselves. Relatively unknown. That was until a wandering band of Spaniards came along in search of gold in the area.” He leans toward the table, reaching for something. I raise the shotgun, gesturing that I will split him like an atom. “Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! I just wanna grab me another smoke. You mind?”
I pause, then sit back down. Gun still trained on him.
“You ought to get those nerves in check.” Mac lights up.
“Not after what we’ve been through tonight.”
“Those people got what they wanted,” he says with a shrug. “They got to die.”
Without a second thought, I launch at him and bring the butt of the shotgun down on his hand, pinning it to the table. Mac cries out, the yelp of an old hound. The limp cigarette spills out of his mouth and bounces on the floor. I snub it out quickly.
“JEEEE-SUS!” Mac shrieks. He goes on a tirade, telling me that I’m an asshole, that I broke his hand, blah, blah, blah. He bares his rotten teeth as he rants. They’re decorated with a patina of black-and-blue decay. A row of century-old tombstones tightly packed together, battered by Mother Nature and crumbling from years of acid rain.
Or, in his case, a ferocious appetite for nicotine.
I lean close and gaze into Mac’s soulless eyes. “Continue.” I release him and sit back down, all while keeping the business end of the shotgun squarely aimed at him.
“Like I was saying!” Mac sneers as he holds his hand against his chest as if it’s an injured dove. “The Spaniards came looking for gold. Instead, they found another treasure . . . a campground full of Native American women of all ages.” His gaze trails down to the ashtray, eyes lighting up as though he were staring at a succulent rack of ribs and not a mound of cigarette butts. “Them girls had caramel skin. Voluptuous bodies, tight and ripe.” He chuckles to himself as he looks up at me. “Ha, ha, ha. I mean the young ones, not the old ones.”
My grip tightens around the shotgun.
An uneasy laugh escapes Mac, and he continues. “Yeah, so, unfortunately, these yoga-bodied beauties were laid ripe for the picking . . . and raping. Most of the males in their tribe had gone off hunting. Only a handful of men in the village kept watch—the very old and the very young. Didn’t take much for the Spaniards to overwhelm them.” He licks his lips as if reliving the event in his mind. There’s a thirst in his tone that unnerves me. “Then it was on with the fiesta! Them Spaniards had a hall pass to have their way with those women.” He stops talking abruptly and gapes at his injured hand. “I can’t believe you actually broke it—”
I hop up, flip the coffee table over, ashes and cigarette butts flying everywhere. I level the shotgun with his eyeballs.
“KEEP TALKING!” I shout.
Mac glowers.
“I SAID, KEEP TALKING!”
“Piss off.”
I kick his shin.
He cries out. “Gard-dammit!” Rubs his leg. “All right, all right! For Christ’s sake—relax, asshole!” Mac holds both hands up in protest. “When the Kenneh’wah hunters came back, they found their village burned to the ground and their people slaughtered. Men, women, and children. They wanted revenge. But the Spaniards had been hiding. They ambushed the hunters. Cut them down with their guns. The Keeneh’wah never had a chance to get their vengeance.”
“But why rape the women?” Kylie asks. “Why kill off the tribe entirely? They weren’t hurting anybody.”
Mac turns to her. “Sweetie.” She makes a sour face at the word sweetie. “Because they could.”
“Maybe they killed them out of frustration?” Chase asks. “Because they didn’t find any gold?”
Mac smacks his knee as he laughs. “I’m sure that didn’t help!”
“How’s that funny?” I ask, holding back every iota of wanting to beat the crap out of this geriatric sack of shit.
“Because it is! Look, nobody cares. It’s ancient history,” Mac says with a casual shrug. “That all went down before your great-great-great-great-great grandfather was more than sperm in his father’s nut sack—”
Kylie punches Mac. The old man squeals. Cups his face with his hand.
“You’re the asshole!” she snaps.
Mac jumps to his feet as if to hit her, but I press the barrel of the shotgun against his crooked nose.
“Touch her,” I say through gritted teeth, “and I’ll paint the wall with your brains.”
Mac’s mouth twitches. Hands curl into fists. I’m sure he wants to try me, but as close as I am, I’d split open his head like a cantaloupe.
Outside several war cries echo from the forest.
Chase stiffens. He turns to the window. “Oh great.” Then turns back to us and mutters, “They’re coming.”
Without taking his eyes off my gun barrel, Mac says, “No, they’re not.”
“Huh?” Chase looks at Mac. “They’re not?”
“No, sir. They’re waiting for you guys to make your next move.” Mac scowls. “You mind getting that out of my face now?”
I hesitate, then step back, and lower the gun.
Mac slinks into his chair.
“Why are they waiting on us?” I ask. “Why not attack us now?”
“Because they can’t!” Spittle flies out of Mac’s mouth. “Wake up, son! Didn’t you find it odd that they didn’t chase after you?”
I nod.
“And that they didn’t put an arrow or a damn spear in your backside?”
“Well actually,” I say, “they tried.”
“And what happened?”
“Their weapons crumbled in the air like they were made of . . . dust.”
Mac says nothing. His gaze trailing off into another world.
“And why’s that?” I ask.
Mac sticks his index finger up in the air, makes a small circle with it. “There’s a
protection spell over the RV park.”
“A what?” Chase asks, his voice making that signature crack of his.
“Kind of part of the maintenance program here. I gotta cast the spell every morning for it to stay in effect.”
“You’re a magician?” Kylie asks, eyebrow raised.
“Ha! No. I’m the maintenance man. It’s just some Kenneh’wah mumbo jumbo that the shaman told me to say.” Mac looks toward the window. “Everything past those light poles surrounding the park is Kenneh’wah soil. Same dirt on which their blood was spilled.” Under his breath, “Well, technically, this whole area is their land. The spell just keeps them temporarily at bay from entering the RV parks.”
“Parks?” I ask.
Mac clears his throat. “I meant park.”
This scumbag is a terrible liar. There’s more than one park. Makes sense. I’m assuming that someone smarter, or at least less senile, is orchestrating this whole thing.
“So basically this is all one big burial ground?” Chase asks.
Mac laughs, his Adam’s apple rising and falling beneath his leathery skin.
Chase searches our faces as if he has somehow missed the joke.
“A burial ground would imply that they were buried.” Mac leans forward, sneers at Chase.
“O . . . K?”
“OK, so”—Mac’s eyes twinkle with delight as he continues—“weren’t you listening, son? The Kenneh’wah were murdered. The bodies that weren’t consumed by the fire when the village burned down were left in the sun to rot. To be picked apart by the vultures, the rodents, the ants. The maggots and the worms.”
Another war cry in the distance.
It’s as if the Kenneh’wah know we’re talking about them.
“Not a very honorable death for a warrior,” Mac says flatly, seemingly numb to the escalating commotion in the background. “They went to their graves with wrath in their hearts, having never gotten their revenge.” Mac taps his chin. “I think there’s even something in the Bible about going to bed angry. Something about not letting the sun go down while you’re still mad. Well, the Kenneh’wah did just that.”
The Death Wish Game Page 8
