by Alan Spencer
The path led back to the wishing well. Crossing his son’s ball cap in the path turned his stomach. The heads of his family, he saw them in graphic detail in his mind's eye and cried. Their deaths were swift and painless. The monster soothed him. I derived no pleasure from killing them. I’ve learned to live with it, and so must you if you’re going to thrive.
They stopped at the well. Without preamble, Ruden dived right into the hole and disappeared. Step back.
Dale was well advised.
A steel barrel was launched from the hole, and it sailed in the air for a long second before it came back down. It clanked upon connection, and rolling forward, it finally stopped against a birch tree.
Roll it inside the cider mill. Line them up in the row opposite the stock tank. Hurry. We’re burning daylight.
And remember, you’ll bathe in blood when we’re finished.
The tone in Ruden’s words fed him energy, compelling him to forge on. He rolled the barrel and propped it up in the cider mill with new aplomb. The barrel was spray-painted gray and rusted along the rim and edges.
He returned to the well, moving faster. Three more barrels were strewn helter-skelter in the path. “How many do you have down there?”
One more.
He towed the last barrel to the mill, and returning to the spot, he waited outside the well. The sun towered above in the sky, and he squinted against the golden rays. The rope shifted, and Ruden climbed out, his task completed.
“I’ll clean the blood from the road, lock up shop, and hang a closed sign in your window.” The monster rushed up the path, but whipped around for a quick moment, threatening him. “Don’t trick me or even try. My blood is in you. I’m inside you. Continue digging the hole and you shall reap rewards beyond your imagination.”
He was alone now, Ruden disappearing to perform another errand somewhere else. Back inside the cider mill, he picked up the shovel and began to dig again, and he wouldn’t stop until the man returned later that night.
5
Stella’s Steakhouse was located on the edge of Smithville two miles east of “The Sunshine Motel” where Caleb had checked into a room. He sat across from Shannon in a booth. She thumbed through a back issue pile of “The Weekly Spectacle Digest," intrigued. The waitress, a Stella Donaldson, requested their orders. He asked for a cheeseburger, curly fries, and a cherry coke, and she decided on a rib-eye steak, loaded baked potato, and longneck of domestic beer—“It’s on your bill, right?”
“You got it.”
He sipped his soda, watching Shannon’s eyebrows arch and up down as she perused the headlines: “BIGFOOT TAKEN TO COURT FOR BACK CHILD SUPPORT,” “MADONNA’S REALLY A VIRGIN SAYS POP STAR’S AUNT,” “MAN’S FLATULENCE LEVELS BUILDING AND KILLS FIVE,” “ELVIS RUNS A HOSTEL IN CHINATOWN DISTRICT OF SAN FRANCISCO,” “CHICKEN FARMER TERRIFIED AFTER HUMAN BABIES ARE BORN FROM EGGS—A THOUSAND CHILDREN HE HAS TO FEED,” “HEART DIESEASE IS NOT REAL SAYS HEART OF AMERICA COUNCILMAN DOUG HUNEY,” “GHOST TUTORS ALGEBRA STUDENTS AT GRANGERHILL ELEMENTARY,” and “ORPHANED BABY RUNS 5K RACE FOR CHARITY."
Shannon scoffed. “How do you come up with this shit? I’d love to get paid for making up this crap.”
“But it can be lonely traveling alone. Would you give up relationships, a family, friends, or sleeping at home in your own bed? Most people want children, white picket fences, screen doors and mortgages, and a barking golden retriever in the backyard. So you’re telling me you’d sacrifice all that for a job writing bullshit stories?”
She was silent for a moment before bursting out, “Uh—yeah! My bed’s a crappy twin-sized. I live in a trailer, Caleb.” She took a long drag from the bottle. “You’re dodging a bullet. No mortgage, no rent, and a company pays your traveling expenses, I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. And I don’t have a boyfriend; my relationships never last anyway. I’m too argumentative. So what you’re saying doesn’t apply to me.”
“Ah, you can't be that bad. You seem nice to me, so far."
“I’m a bitch. I pick fights. I argue. I blow up at a moment’s notice. I guess I can’t let a good thing be. I’m more concerned about making a living, and then I’d let everything else fall into place after that.”
“Maybe you’re right. I haven’t been in a relationship in...gosh, since I started this job. Two years.”
She expelled a breath of pent-up air, flabbergasted. “So you haven’t gotten any in two years?”
The question was blunt, yet he didn’t take offense. “I didn’t say that.”
The waitress delivered their food, stalling the conversation as they delved into their plates. He bit into his hamburger, and afterwards, he decided to pour on more ketchup on the bland meat. She clutched the knife and fork to slice up her steak into triangles. The slab was bleeding rare. His hamburger was cooked well done.
“Aren’t you afraid of e.coli?” He winced as she kept her mouth open and tore into a triangle of steak. Blood sponged free between her teeth. “Food poisoning isn’t fun. Oh, and it can kill you.”
The overzealous way Shannon kept biting into the meat sparked an idea:
The beef at Stella’s steakhouse issues ounces of blood long-after being cooked. Religious herald Brice Brinkley claims it’s the cries of cattle souls. Vegetarian and author of “Recipes Without Death,” Mandy Johansson, agrees that bleeding meat is a religious callout not to slaughter animals. A griller, Victor Calloway of Stillwell, Kansas, refutes the claim, “It can bleed all it wants, I’m still gonna eat it!”
“The meat comes from Chetley’s Slaughterhouse.” She slathered the next piece in A1 Steak sauce. “Frank Chetley’s a good man. I worked as a receptionist there until I was caught smoking weed in the break room, but his facility is topnotch. Sum’ bitch knows how to make grade-A cuts.”
She thumbed through another magazine, slowing down her eating speed. “Wow, bat boy has sex with bat girl and gives birth to a vampire.” She tipped the longneck into her mouth, sipping it raucously. “So back to what you said, when was your last relationship?”
“Before I moved from Cincinnati, about two years ago. I dated a girl named Rachael Zimmerman. I guess we were high school sweethearts, a dinner and a movie scenario, mostly.”
She corrected him, “You mean hand jobs during the previews and blue-balls make-out sessions afterwards?”
“Yeah.” He laughed nervously. “We played around a bit, but she held back. I thought it was something I was doing wrong, but she was really with another guy. I saw her making out with this dude named Layne Williams. He was in a garage punk band named, “Faded Puke." Whatever, right? I guess a long-distance relationship wouldn’t have worked for us anyway. Life changed so fast for me. My father tells me his secret before he dies, I get this job, and that’s where I am now. The rubble’s finally clearing. Besides, I’m not around a person long enough to trust them.” He winked at her. “But I am opening up to you. Look at me go.”
She belched. “I have that effect on people. It sounds like you need to have some fun. I’ll show you a good time. Tonight, there’s a bonfire near the trailer park. You should hang out. You’ll meet people." Shannon winked. "Maybe you’ll get article ideas too.”
He finished his burger and fries, leaving money and a sizeable tip on the table. It was now 4:30. “You have anything new to show me?—anymore sights? I don’t know if you can beat Chippie.”
“I can beat Chippie’s story,” she insisted, her desperation for money returning full thrust as they walked back towards the Sedan. “Can I stop by my place first? I have to pay the rent by five.” Before they loaded into the car, Shannon placed her hand on his shoulder and eyed him with frank intensity. “I’d hate to ask, but can I get another advance? I swear this next story is good. I have many more stories where that came from, but since I lost my job at the Save Mart, I’m in a bind.”
He wasn’t sure if he could trust the girl, but he liked her enough to escort her to her house and think about it. She was the first who asked
for advances; most people had one place to show him, and they left it at that, content with the easy two hundred bucks.
He reached in the backseat for his camera case and removed the money and handed the wad over to her. “You wouldn’t be putting me on, would you?”
She shook her head. A strand of black hair was stuck in the crook of her lip; she sucked on it. “The rent’s the only reason. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bring it up like this.”
The best way to learn if she was telling the truth was to simply ask, “Where are we going after your place?”
“The abandoned mirror factory,” she replied, hurt momentarily that he didn’t believe her. “And maybe the Cider Mill, if we have time. There’s a creepy wishing well there. Plus, the cider mill itself is interesting. Smithville’s,” she made a vomit sound, “pride.”
He started the car, backed up, and returned the way they came. “Okay, I’m trusting you, but once you break the honor system, you break it forever.”
6
Smithville Mobile Home Park bustled with men and women who’d signed off for work and were walking outside their homes smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, or sharing laughs between friends. Children romped in kiddy pools, played boisterous games of tag, or participated in more destructive behaviors, the backdrop busy with random firecrackers thundering and popping in every cardinal direction: the crack of bottle rockets, the THOOM of artillery cannons, the bullet-spatter of “Black Cats” and “Lady Fingers,” multi-colors of smoke bombs spreading across the grounds in a rainbow fog, and roman candles THOOPING up into the sky. It’d been a week since Independence Day and Smithville still continued to celebrate the holiday.
He drove up the gravel path between rows of trailers and mobile homes and spotted a man dressed in cut off sweatpants, a blue tank-top, and a mullet haircut worthy of a David Spade comedy. The man smoked the nub of a cigarette and clutched a forty ounce of malt liquor to his chest. Please don’t let this be her place.
“You see that guy,” she said, pointing in the dreaded person’s direction. “That’s my brother, Travis.” She rolled her eyes. “He's a lazy shit head.”
He parked and stepped out, dreading the idea of meeting Travis. The man didn’t react to her presence except to ask, “You get that unemployment check?”
“I’ve got the money." He became nervous when she b-lined to a motor home four down from her own. “I’ll be right back,” she said to him. “I have to talk to the landlord. I owe him two month’s rent.”
Travis leered at Caleb and his suit, dubbing him an outsider. The man scratched the back of his leg with his big toe. He flicked his spent cigarette and asked him, “You smoke?”
“Sure.” He dug into his suit pocket for a fresh pack. Tossing it to him, Travis caught it, pocketing one and shoving another into his mouth before returning the pack. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The man flicked his lighter, giving birth to another cigarette. Standing there, Caleb noticed a pair of black rubber boots beside the welcome mat and remembered Shannon mentioning he worked at a slaughterhouse.
Travis asked, “You give my sister money?”
The casual accusation bothered him. “She’s working for me. No harm in that. She earned it.”
He tipped his beer into his mouth for a pull. “She’s at it again. I thought she quit scammin’. Skeezer won’t quit. She gives out blowjobs like handshakes. Money and attention is all it takes.”
“It’s not like that.” He swatted a mosquito at his neck. “I’m somewhat of a reporter. She’s showing me a story.”
“Oh, I’m sure that's it,” the man sniggered, swaggering in place about to lose himself down the short set of steps he stood on. The man was more than tipsy. “We owe four hundred dollars in back rent and utilities. It’s all arranged through Mr. Parker, and he let us ride because Shannon’s given him special attention.” He wrinkled his nose. “She’s nasty, man. I’d watch your Twinkie. She must be helping you out in a big way for that much money.”
He understood why Shannon didn’t enjoy her brother. What he claimed could be true, but there was a jealousy in the man’s words. It made him wonder if Travis was attracted to his sister.
The motor home door was thrown open, and an older version of Travis but fifty pounds heavier and bald, stumbled down the steps wearing a Missouri Tigers t-shirt.
The man blurted out, “Got any cigarettes, or did you smoke 'em all like you always do?”
Travis shook his head and pointed at Caleb.
The man scoffed at his son. “You smoked them up, didn’t you?” He froze on Caleb, his eyes a beggar's. “You smoke?”
He tossed the pack, and the man suddenly became a professional athlete and caught the pack against his chest, almost running it in for a touchdown. He slipped one out of the box, and Travis lit it for him. Caleb motioned for him to keep the pack. He brightened at the gift, as if he were smoking gold. “Hey, thanks man. I’m Ralph.” He scrutinized Caleb's garb. “What brings you out here dressed all nice?”
“He’s puttin’ the blocks to Shannon,” Travis interrupted, cracking up so hard he almost dropped his beer. “Shannon’s found herself an upper classman to ball. Caleb looks tired. I’m sure he’s sore. I’d be.”
“Hey, it's nothing like that.” He stopped himself from lashing out, understanding it wouldn’t do any good to argue with them. “She’s working for me; I’m a reporter.” He didn’t bother to explain what caliber of reporter he was; the less they knew about him, the better. “I hear you guys work for the slaughterhouse. Anything strange go on down there?”
Ralph hacked up snot and spat the yellow wad to his left. “Yeah, I suppose. We have a strange customer. He claims he uses cattle’s blood on his farm. For what, fucked if I know. Pays good money for it, in fact, like thousands of dollars for drums and drums of it. He comes all the way from Scranton, a good three hour’s drive. We collect it in drums and freeze it until he comes once a month to pick it up. Mysterious guy, but the money talks, right? You can be a freak, but if you’ve got the cash, you can get away with murder. Who knows what the blood is really used for?”
He spoke without thinking, the story obviously bullshit. “You’re not telling me a lie, are you?”
Travis stubbed out the loaned cigarette onto the side of the motor home. “There really is a guy who buys the cattle blood. I’d say eight two gallon jugs a month. The boss pockets the money even though we do the work.” He clenched his fists. “I’d like to show that bastard a few things.”
Ralph stepped down, almost slipping on the last stair, to reach Caleb who hadn’t moved the entire conversation. “Whoa—that was close! Hah, hah, hah! Old timer can’t keep his balance after a few drinks.” He wrapped his arm around Caleb’s shoulder, being buddy-buddy. “It’s good Shannon’s found a redeemable man. You dress sharp. I’m sure you have money. Stable job. You don’t cuss us out when we bum cigs off ya—that’s worthy of giving you my blessing.”
This alcoholic coot’s giving me his blessing to court his daughter. I know Kansas isn’t all yokels, but I’ve found the cream-of-the-crop in Smithville.
“She’s on the pill,” the father added, continuing to promote his daughter. “I’d still wear a rubber, just in case.”
He mustered a response. “Um, I’ll do that.”
“Oh, did Shannon tell you about the bonfire tonight? In a few hours, this place will be buzzing. We’re going to light up the night tonight.”
A two hundred ream of firecrackers rattled fifteen yards out. The girl had stuffed them in a tin can, which went up in flames and issued tangles of acrid smoke.
He thought about what day of the week it was and had forgotten it was Friday. “I’m sure I’ll be there. I could use a beer or two.”
Travis raised his forty ounce. “I’ll raise my drink to that.”
Shannon returned to the trailer, and Ralph checked his watch. “Five minutes exactly, honey. I’m sure you had a good talk with Mr. Parker.”
“Fuck off." She
flipped him off and guided Caleb by the arm back to his car. “I’ll be out paying the bills. You guys keep working part-time and blowing it all on booze, and weed, and meth. Yeah, I don’t mind making all the money. You boys deserve the good life. It’s the least I could do for my family.”
She flipped them off again.
Shannon stepped into his car. “Caleb, let’s go.”
He circled around to the driver’s side, more-than-happy to escape. The two watched from the mobile home silent, but on-the-verge of saying something. They broke out in raucous laughter the second he started the car.
Driving from the park, she was visibly frustrated. “I hate them. No wonder Mom left us.” She turned to him. “Did they say I was a slut?”
He wanted to calm her concerns. “Hey, they’re full of shit. They’re drunk, and it’s not even five o’clock yet. I know what it's like. My step-mom leeched from my father and was proud of it. She’d make my dad buy cigarettes and booze after coming home from work, and he'd clean and cook too. She didn’t work or nothing. My step-mom was a bitch.”
She wiped a tear from the edge of her eye and smiled at him. “I should move away. All I need is a wad of cash to save, and I can do what the hell I want. I’ll leave their fucking asses.” She pointed back at the trailer park. “They’re a bunch of grown children.”
“You keep showing me stories, maybe you can reach that point. Two weeks, that’s a lot of time. This place is full of stories.”
She appreciated the encouragement. “You’ll want to turn left on Apache Road.” After leaving the mobile home park in their dust, the land was flat with untended property, a Midwestern jungle without residents or buildings. “That mirror factory I was telling you about is two miles east. It’s been abandoned for three years. An accident happened and fifty people died, crushed under fibers of glass. My dad worked there when it happened; lucky bastard was on an unscheduled smoke break when it happened. He said men were cut in half. Bulk glass was being hauled for melting when the bin tipped over and dumped the glass onto the workers.”
