Countered Questions

by Brooke Kinsley

  But the shrieking drifted off into the distance along with the sound of sand being kicked up by quick feet. I wasn’t going to be so lucky.

  My mouth had never been dryer. I tried to swallow but struggled against the pain, my tonsils feeling as though they were being assaulted by a blowtorch.

  “Marcia! You fucking bitch!”

  I kicked at the rock.

  “You’ve finally ended me. You’ve killed me!”

  “Hey, shut up over there!”

  At first I assumed I had finally lost my mind. The voice must have been in my head because there was nothing and nobody out here.

  “You shut up!” I shouted back.

  There was silence. Obviously, I’d threatened the voice into submission.

  “Who the fuck are you?” it roared back. “Don’t make me come over there.”

  I soon realized the voice was real and it was approaching along with the sound of boots crunching on the ground. Sitting up, I spun round and saw a bobbing flashlight.

  “Why are you on my farm?” came the voice.

  I couldn’t quite figure out the accent but placed it as one of the northern states.

  “Are you American?” I asked the flashlight.

  The orb was growing as it approached and was now starting to illuminate the top of a pair of boots and some leather pants.

  “Flint,” came the voice.

  “What are the chances?” I replied. “Normont born and raised.”

  I still assumed I had to be dreaming. After all, what could be so pure and reassuring out here than a familiar voice even if it was angry? Rolling off the rock, I climbed to my feet and raised my arms.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not any trouble. I’ve been robbed and dumped out here.”

  Something hit the ground. It was then then I saw whoever held the flashlight also held a shotgun. It now lay in the sand.

  “Another one,” he sighed.

  As he raised the flashlight, I finally got a glimpse of the face behind. It was far uglier than I could have imagined but obviously American. A diamond shaped jaw covered in graying stubble gave way to pockmarked cheeks. Blue eyes surrounded by deep set lines looked at me, pityingly. On top his head was a mop of dirty hair that was once lustrous but now neglected. His lips were chapped and thin, his nose broken but still proud. His life had obviously been every bit as tough as mine.

  “Let me guess. Bikers left you at the border.”

  “Yup.”

  “Although I see you’re still alive and you’ve still got your shoes so they must have liked you for some reason.”

  He coughed and ran a hand through his hair, picked up his shotgun and pointed it into the distance.

  “I suppose you better come with me.”

  He sounded annoyed but resigned to the unlikely past-time of bringing in wayward victims.

  "Are you coming?" he asked annoyed, wondering why I was lingering.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Back to the farm," he said. "Don't worry it's not far."

  I trailed after him but saw no sign of a ranch or a car. It was as though he'd just emerged out the darkness. I panicked for a second, worried that he could be a lost madman like me. Or maybe he was a ghost. Perhaps he was something much worse, a creation of my own mind and madness.

  "I don't see a farm," I said.

  I didn't mean for my voice to come out so suspicious but it did and he turned round to glance at me, shining the flashlight in my face.

  "What, you don't believe me boy?"

  Boy? I thought. How fucking dare he?

  "Of course I believe you but... I just don't see it."

  He lowered the flashlight and continued walking.

  "Truth be told, I never would have known you were here if you didn't start jabbering to yourself like a lunatic. It was by chance that I drove out to the edge of my property to check for coyotes. Heard one scampering about in that direction."

  He shone the light in the distance and it was only then that I could just about make out a wooden fence. Beyond it, there was a hint of white wool. As we got closer, I saw a sheep sleeping. There was less sand up here and more grass. As it turns out, the desert gave way to, maybe not the most fertile of pastures, but pastures nonetheless.

  My feet welcomed the sensation of walking on soft soil and I relaxed in an instant.

  "Yep, would never have known," he continued.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys.

  "Truck's over this way," he said.

  Just on the other side of the sheep lay a white pickup, pristine and sparkling. I also noticed it had US number plates.

  "Get in."

  He didn't need to tell me twice. I jumped up into the passenger seat and felt the wonderful warmth of the upholstery.

  "So..." he said, twisting the key in the ignition, "Just what were you jabbering about? Cursing the stars?"

  "Cursing something alright."

  "Cursing those fucking bikers?"

  He turned round and began driving over the bumpy terrain. Not far in the distance, a lopsided, wooden house came into view. It was like something from a fairytale, if the wicked witch had been cooking meth instead of pie.

  "They're the bane of my life they are," he said. "Always doing fuck knows what around here. They get away with it too because it's on the border and well, the Guatemalan police ain't going to do shit. Anyway, you're not the first poor soul I've found out here although I gotta say, you're only the second I've found alive. The last guy, a German tourist had been robbed of everything but his boxer shorts and left right where you were. He wondered right into the farm. I found him huddled between the sheep, crying about bikers that had taken not only his car and his money but his girlfriend too."

  "Jesus! They took his girlfriend?"

  The guy bit his lip and nodded solemnly.

  "He tried to find her but... never did."

  "Fuck..."

  My situation was now in perspective. After all, I may have fucked everything up and was all alone but there was a strange kind of freedom from that. At least I hadn't hurt anyone. At least the woman I loved hadn't been snatched from me.

  Once at the house, I could see the glow of a fire smoldering in a hearth through the window. There was the smell of something sweet in the air too, like alcohol mixed with something synthetic.

  "Let's get you something strong," he said. "You certainly look like you need it."

  Once inside the house, standing beneath the sagging roof, I looked around at all the contraptions that were stacked floor to ceiling. It looked like Bosworth's lab crossed with a scrap yard.

  "I bet you're wondering what all this stuff is?" he asked, pulling a plastic bag of nuts and bolts off a torn up leather couch. "Take a seat."

  "Yeah I was wondering."

  "I like to tinker," he said. "Makes me feel useful."

  "Nice."

  It was all I could think of to say and it sounded stupid.

  "Well my ex-wife didn't think it was nice. What was it she called me? Oh yeah, a hoarder.”

  It wasn't hard to see where she was coming from. The guy was definitely a hoarder. There wasn't a single space of clear floor and I found myself stomping on ancient newspapers and burned up cooking pots as I navigated my way to the couch.

  "Forgive me for asking but..."

  "What am I doing down here?" he interjected as he handed me a glass of something putrid smelling. "Same as you I guess. Wanted to run away and got myself in trouble."

  "Is that everyone's story down here?"

  "Pretty much."

  "I didn't realize I looked so obvious."

  He sat across from me, throwing his lumbering body onto all the stuff as though it wasn't there. He burst out laughing as he landed.

  "Dude, you gotta be kidding me. You've got one of those haunted looks on your face and a ragged body. What you running from? You a felon?"

  "Actually I'm a cop. Was a cop."

  "Jesus Christ. I don't even wanna know wh
at you've got yourself into. What's your name anyway?"

  "Franklin but some guys like to call me by my surname, Berger."

  "Burger," he said. "Sure. I'll go with that. Well, Burger, I'll tell you what I told that German boy. You can stay here for a while and I'll feed you and whatnot until you can get your shit together to get on your way. But you gotta work for it. You'll be shoveling shit at a helluva rate."

  Hearing him say that was the greatest relief of my life. I had a home. Sort of.And a job.Sort of. And I was safe. Maybe.

  "Thank you," I said. "And what name do you go by?"

  “Dan, Dan Cooper but some people like to call me DB.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lincoln

  "I'll take it all."

  "Oh, erm, well..."

  "The clients yeah... But I can pay more."

  She scratched the hair along the edge of her chin. It always struck me as strange that when women got to a certain age they started sprouting hair from weird places but never seemed to mind.

  "I want it all," I insisted. "The Manson letters, the Ramirez drawings, the Gacy painting of Jesus. I need them all."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'll give you whatever you want."

  She was bright red with excitement.

  "I'll have to call my clients," she said.

  "You do that."

  Before she could reach for her phone, a knock came on the door and we both froze.

  "Cynthia? Bosworth? Are you guys in there?"

  We both said nothing.

  "I could hear you talking," said Schiele.

  He had well and truly ruined the moment.

  "I'll take it all," I whispered to Cynthia as she hurried to slide all of it back into her case.

  Opening the door with a heavy heart, I saw Schiele, half drunk and angry glaring at me.

  "Where have you two been hiding?" he asked.

  "Cynthia wanted to see where the magic happens," I explained and waved a hand around the room. "So I thought I'd give her a tour of the premises."

  "Aaw, Gustav it's wonderful," she cawed from behind me. "You gotta see this place."

  Schiele was starting to look green and swayed slightly.

  "What's the hell is that smell?" he asked.

  "Drains," I said.

  "Doesn't smell like drains. It's smells like-"

  "Fancy another drink?"

  He shook his head, grimacing as though he had shit on his top lip.

  "I need to get outta here," he said but before he turned round, he caught sight of the icebox behind me.

  "Having a party?" he asked.

  All I could do was stare at him and hope he'd leave us alone.

  "What's in there?"

  "Nothing."

  "No seriously. I think I can-"

  "It's nothing."

  Now Cynthia was staring at it too and I had to acknowledge that that smell was sickening. It was seeping into our hair, our clothes. You could taste it, almost reach out and grab it. I had been in here living with it for so long that I'd started to think it was normal but now, with Schiele's face drooping more and more by thesecond, I was starting to realize just how bad it was.

  He knew what was in the box too. You didn't need to be an expert to know what the smell was, or why there would be so much ice in a box that size.

  "What's going on here?" he asked.

  The Tricephthial was under his arm and he held onto it for dear life. Something truly strange and frightening was happening in my lab but he couldn't quite place it.

  "Nothing, "Isaid. "Cynthia was showing me her collection."

  "I mean in the box. What's in the box? Under all that ice."

  "Specimens," I said.

  "What kinda specimens?"

  I stared at him some more.

  "I'm guessing specimens that you've beentryingto preserve long enough for this," he tapped theTricephthial at his side. "I don't know what the fuck you're doing down here but it's... it's.... Fuck Bosworth I don't even have a better explanation of it than to say it's evil. At this point I don't even want to know what you're doing."

  "I'm trying to love someone again," I said.

  His face crumpled up.

  "You've lost your mind," he said. "Do you know how insane you look right now. You're standing there, barely a human, wasting away with your face all sunken and your skin gray. You're dying in front of our eyes and it's..."

  For a second I thought he was on the cusp of crying but he gulped hard and turned to his wife.

  "Cynthia, we're going."

  She wasn't going to budge. I'd promised her all this money and she knew I was good for it. She wasn't going anywhere.

  "No, Gustav. Linx and I have business."

  "Linx?" he laughed then his face dropped again. "Cynthia I mean it. Move."

  He strode into the room to grab his wife but stopped in his tracks once he reached the ice box. The smell was now so close and thick that he looked as though he could pass out.

  "How can you two stand being down here?" he gasped, loosening his collar. "Come on Cynthia."

  "I'm staying here," she said. "We have business."

  She gave me a twinkly eyed look and bent down to show more of her cleavage. These two are weirdos, I thought. Fucking weirdos.

  "Right. Thank you both for visiting. It's been adelight but I'm ready to say goodbye now. If you’d just hand over the Tricephthial I’ll make sure you’re paid right and-“

  “Fuck off Bosworth.”

  Cynthia and I looked at him, dumbfounded. Now, out of everyone in the room he looked the craziest.

  "How dare you talk to our host like this?" she gasped. "He's been nothing but hospitable to us."

  Schiele pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his eyes shut.

  "Cynthia. This is insane. Just grab your stuff and let's get going. Come on."

  "I'm not going anywhere," she said, taking a seat. "I'm staying here with Linx. Do you know he actually appreciates what I have here? Doesn't think I'm some crazy person."

  Schiele looked ready to explode.

  "You're both crazy people and coming here was a mistake. Let's go."

  "Look," I stepped in between them. "How about we all just calm down. We can have another drink and you can hand over the Tricephthial. Then when you're ready, I'll get the jet ready to take you back home. Sound's good, right?"

  "Bosworth, if you think you're getting your hands on this you've actually lost your mind. I should never have come here, should never have brought it."

  "Gustav stop being such a raging asshole and hand it over to Linx."

  "Cynthia stay out of this."

  "No!" she screeched at her husband. "You've been talking to me like shit and bossing me around the whole way down here. I can't stand it anymore. You're listening to me now. You do what the nice man says and hand over the... the whatever the hell is in that case."

  "Nice?" spat Schiele. "Are you joking?"

  "Just do it!" she screamed and lurched forward.

  The two of them grappled with the case of Tricephthial, the two of them pushing and pulling at each other in a peculiar dance. The sight of tiny Cynthia trying to fight her tall, gangly husband amused me and I found myself laughing.

  Then they both stumbled backward, sliding on the ice water. Schiele was the first to slip then Cynthia tumbled on top of him. Before I could move, there was ice cascading down the sides of the box and we were all falling to the ground. Etta's body quietly slipped down onto the floor beside us.

  An inhuman scream echoed around the room. I turned to see Schiele's face twisted and open at the sight. Beside him, his wife smiled and crept closer.

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  About The Author

  Brooke Kinsley has been in love with words since the day she took her first breath. She loves writing steamy, sexy stories with very strong guys
who fall deeply in love with the women they flirt. Coffee and wine inspired her stories and she thinks every person should partake in! Brooke lives in Quebec, Canada with her boyfriend. When she's not crafting stories, she's probably playing with her two cats.

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