by David Haynes
“I just want to go and take a long hot bath and drink a bottle of JD.” The sodium floodlights buzzed like an angry wasp hovering overhead.
Draper had stopped looking in the mirror about a week ago. It was a depressing sight but Mercer looked in worse shape. The beard was full but his eyes were sunken like he’d lost weight. Were the same nightmares keeping him awake too? The same revolving images of the most hideous acts of humanity? He wanted to ask him, he wanted to know but all that came out of his mouth was,
“You okay?”
Mercer winked and jumped up into the cab. “Never better.”
Draper nodded and watched him for a moment. “I need this,” he said.
Mercer nodded, fired up the engine and gave Draper a salute. It was a gesture they had used hundreds of times before but this one wasn’t like any of the others. Mercer actually looked in pain.
Draper wandered back to his camper and climbed inside. Mercer would feel better once they were away from here, sitting in some bar drinking beer and counting their cash. They all would.
*
Son of a bitch, thought Vinson. Arrogant, ignorant son of a bitch. Mercer had barely said two words to him since the incident outside the camper. None of them had really which suited him down to the ground. It didn’t stop him talking to them though. Inside his head. It didn’t stop him imagining what he would do to them with his knife. How Mercer’s screams would echo down the valley like a calling loon.
Tonight was no different. Mercer was working on the glory-hole. Deep, down in the dirt where they thought all that gold had come from. He wanted to laugh every time that idiot Draper talked about the streak they were on. Sure, things were better than they had been but only because of the spilled trap. The false hope. Other than that, everything was back to normal.
He scooped up a load and dropped it in through the bars, then returned to the pile to get another. The bulldozer’s engine coughed. It coughed, spluttered and then a terrible grinding noise made him wince, an electric shock passing through his teeth.
“Crap,” he muttered. And yet the vehicle was fine. He eased down on the gas pedal. All fine. So what was that sound? As soon as he’d thought of the question, he answered it, looking over his shoulder at the hulking shadow of the plant. Lit up from behind like it was, it resembled a prehistoric creature more at home in a museum than in the wilds of Alaska.
The whole plant was shaking. The grinding had become screeching. Water was arcing into the air and running over the sides in a constant stream. He switched the engine off and jumped down. He needed to turn off the power before it pounded itself into the earth.
He punched the button and the whole structure vibrated to a standstill. The generator still rumbled on, providing power to the water pump and the lights. He isolated the pump, temporarily halting the flow of icy water.
In the distance Mercer’s excavator arm rose then fell as he continued to dig, oblivious to what was happening at the plant. The knocking of the engine was the only sound as the snow fell silently across the valley.
Vinson’s first thought was that the gold trap had spilled again. Or it had worked loose and was jamming the whole plant. If that was the case, he needed to repair it quickly. Before any more gold was lost. Before anyone came.
He jumped up onto the gantry and slid into the barrier, scraping his shins painfully. The snow was freezing where it fell. He grunted and leaned down to look inside the trap. Everything looked normal, everything where it should be. He could see the angular shapes of nuggets nestling safely inside. He pulled back, feeling a sense of lightness and relief.
But it still left the question of what was wrong with the plant. If it wasn’t operating then he stood to lose as much as everyone else. More so. He clambered down and looked the plant over before turning it on again.
Almost immediately, he turned it back off. The screeching sound was deafening, shrill against the silent backdrop.
Silent backdrop.
“What’s wrong with it?” Mercer strode into view, his shadow spindly and unnatural.
Vinson jumped. “Jammed somewhere.” He turned away and walked toward the rear of the plant, toward the hopper and the grizzly-bars. He heard Mercer’s feet packing down the snow behind him. Just what he wanted, someone who thought they knew everything following him about.
“I can handle it,” he said without turning.
“I know,” replied Mercer but continued to follow anyway.
Vinson climbed the tallest ladder on the plant up to the hopper. The gantry was smaller than the others, designed only for one person, but he felt Mercer’s feet on the rungs behind him.
The grizzly-bars had done their job, stopping several large boulders passing into the system. Once a shift, he would use the teeth on the bulldozer to pull them free and send them crashing down onto the ground below. They were too heavy to move by hand but they would be washed like every other piece of rock in the creek.
He shone his flashlight through the bars. The plant had seized with half a load still passing through. Dirt was piled up beneath the bars, waiting to slide through the initial sift and then onto the belt to be carried through and washed.
“What the hell?”
He looked at Mercer who was pointing his flashlight toward the back of the hopper, at the funnel-shaped exit where the rocks passed through. Vinson followed the shaft of light and almost giggled like a schoolgirl.
Burgess’s eyes were staring at him. Staring at him just as they had done as he was dragged past by the window of his camper. Hideous, vacant, frightened. And comical.
Mercer was already pushing him out of the way. “Oh Christ,” he whispered in Vinson’s ears as he moved across him.
Vinson couldn’t move. Was it real or a hallucination boiled up by his sleep-deprived brain? He blinked, ice crystals trying to freeze his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again Mercer was stretching across, trying to reach through the grizzly-bars.
“Help me!” Mercer shouted. His hood had fallen back and his ragged brown hair was already turning white as snow fell in a relentless haze. “Pass me the wrench!”
Vinson looked about. The gantry was covered in snow and swaying slightly beneath their weight. It was designed to move as the hopper vibrated but it was his least favorite place on the claim. He had never liked heights.
“Over there!” Mercer barked, pointing at a box beside the ladder. Vinson flipped the lid, sending snow cascading to the ground beneath. It was a long way down. Twenty feet, maybe? He pulled out two long-handled wrenches and for a brief second considered what Mercer’s skull would look like under all that hair with a wrench buried in it. He could feel ruby-red eyes boring into the back of his own skull. It tickled pleasantly.
He handed Mercer the silver-handled wrench and stepped back.
Mercer lay over the bars, pushing the wrench through the gap.
“Jesus Christ, it’s Dave Burgess,” he grunted. “Shit,” he hissed and knocked Burgess’s head around so it was fully exposed. It was wedged in the funnel with a large and angular rock pushed through his cheek. It gave his face a bloated snarl. There was nothing below the neck, just an untidy tear along the flesh.
Mercer scrambled back off the bars. They both stood in silence, looking at the remains of Dave Burgess.
Finally Mercer turned and spoke to him. “What the hell happened?”
Vinson shook his head but didn’t look at him. He was transfixed by the eyes. Not horrified, just interested. For a split-second there was a flash of red in his lifeless eyes. Like they were on fire. Or his organs had caught fire and he was burning from the inside out. What exactly had he been thinking as his head was detached from his body? He was...
“Mike!” Mercer shoved him on the shoulder. He turned slowly. His eyes had a mixture of shock and anger in them. “I said, what happened? What did you do?”
Vinson couldn’t think how to reply. He hadn’t done this. Well, he supposed he had, in a way. He hadn’t loaded Burgess into the hop
per. That wouldn’t make sense. But he had killed him and kind of enjoyed it.
“Me?” he replied. “I didn’t do this. It must’ve been in the dirt your pal, Draper, brought over.” His hands were aching with the cold, fingers almost numb as they gripped the wrench.
Mercer leaned in closer. Vinson could see the individual flakes of snow on his eyelashes.
“You did this,” he spat. “Don’t ask me why I know, but I do.” He waited for a moment. The two of them locked together. “You’re up to something. You’re a fucking weasel.”
Vinson opened his mouth to speak, to deny what he’d been accused of, but what was the point?
“Maybe,” he replied. “But I didn’t put his head in there.” Something burned behind his eyes, something fierce and penetrating. It stung…
Mercer’s eyes widened as if he’d seen or heard something he didn’t understand. Good. His reply had caught the big man off-guard. He wasn’t expecting such a response, certainly nothing quite so blatant. He pushed on ahead, hoping to garner something akin to shock. Or maybe fear.
“Although it looks better in there than it did on top of his fat body.” The cold handle of the wrench felt as if it were adhering to the skin on his palm. He held it to the side, almost behind his back.
Mercer opened his mouth and then shut it again. His face a picture of confused anger. The man didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t clever enough.
“You... you twisted son of a bitch.”
He was really enjoying Mercer’s reaction. It made a refreshing change that he was the one dishing out the shocks not, as had been the case for so long, the other way around.
“Twisted, and too smart for all of you,” Vinson replied. “I’m walking out of here a rich man which is more than any of you are.” He patted his pocket with his free hand. “Now where’s that missing nugget? Ah yes...”
Mercer’s eyes narrowed as he cut Vinson off. “You son of a bitch.”
He reached out but Vinson had been expecting it and swung the wrench upwards. It made a clink as it jarred Mercer’s teeth together. His head jerked back and he missed Vinson’s collar by a foot.
Vinson raised the wrench again. Pulling his knife wasn’t an option. The handle was beneath three layers of clothing and his fingers felt like swollen sausages. His intention was to bring the steel down directly on top of Mercer’s head, but the big man saw it coming and moved his head to the side. The wrench bounced off his ear, striking him in the join of neck and shoulder. It was like hitting a lump of rock and the wrench bounced off without causing any injury.
Mercer grabbed Vinson’s wrist and drove it into the gantry safety rail. Pain exploded all the way along his arm into the base of his skull. He cried out but didn’t release his grip. He could hardly feel his fingers anyway so the numbing pain was just an extension of what was already happening to his extremities.
Mercer was strong though. Much stronger than Burgess had been. He could feel the strength in his grip. Vinson gritted his teeth and tried to force his arm back up but it was like arm-wrestling a bear. He saw the dark shadow of Mercer’s fist silhouetted against the burnt-orange sodium light a moment before it struck the side of his chin. A firework went off in his head, flashing yellow, red and green against the starless sky behind his eyes.
His legs buckled beneath him but his foot wedged against the hopper and stopped him falling. It was like being hit by a sledgehammer. A second blow would be coming very soon. He tried to jerk his hand away but it was pinned to the guardrail by Mercer’s enormous paw.
He should feel scared, he knew that was how he was supposed to feel, but he didn’t. There was nothing to lose. There hadn’t been anything to lose in a long time. He just hadn’t wanted to admit to himself. But here it was. Clarity. And rage. A burning rage of such intensity that his entire body felt like it was ablaze.
He kicked out, his boot connecting with Mercer’s knee. The whole gantry was rocking from side to side, rattling and shaking. Mercer grunted, his knee folding slightly. And then another hammer blow struck Vinson. This time it glanced off his shoulder and caught him on the fleshy part of his cheek. His teeth crashed together, blood filling his mouth. He laughed, spat in Mercer’s face. The blood was a vibrant red, sparkling and glowing in the freezing air.
Mercer roared like a beast as his free hand grabbed Vinson’s collar and flung him backward. Back toward the ladder and the twenty-foot drop.
He skidded on the snow, hitting his head on the hopper, but he still had the wrench in his hands. Spitting in Mercer’s face had worked. He needed space. He needed to get away from his brutal fists. He scrambled to his knees and watched as Mercer walked toward him. He noted that the big man still hadn’t grabbed his own wrench. He probably figured he could do just as much damage with his fists as a piece of steel. He was right.
Mercer wasn’t a killer. He’d seen killers before, plenty of times, and Mercer wasn’t one. Not even close. He wiped Vinson’s bloody spit off his face with his sleeve.
“You bastard, I’m going to...”
Vinson hurled the wrench. It flew end over end, the steel momentarily catching the light, and hit Mercer in the middle of his forehead. He stopped dead in his tracks and blinked. A spidery black line traced down his forehead along the bridge of his nose, producing a single drop of blood. It fell silently onto the snow. Mercer toppled forward like a felled tree and the gantry quaked at the impact.
Vinson remained motionless for a moment. The humming noise in his ears was deafening. Slowly, he stood up and kicked snow at Mercer’s exposed head. Then he kicked him hard on the shoulder. The man didn’t move. He was unconscious but he wasn’t dead.
The knife was tucked away. His cold fingers fumbled with the fastener for a minute before he decided against using it. It wasn’t the cold, it was the blood. Cutting Mercer’s throat, which he so badly wanted to do, would result in a loss of blood so voluminous that it couldn’t be hidden. Especially with the snow. Although at the rate it was falling, it would soon be covered by a fresh layer. But he too would be covered, the wash-plant painted a fresh shade of red and the inevitable questions would arise. He wasn’t ready to answer them yet. He soon would be but not yet.
What to do with the body? He looked down at the ground beneath the ladder. No, Mr Mercer, it wasn’t Mike Vinson who was going over the edge. That treat is all for you. Whatever it was that had taken Burgess away would do the same for Mercer. He smiled, feeling as if he were wrapping a gift.
He reached over the body and pressed the button to lift the grizzly-bars. Nothing happened. It didn’t matter, he would switch the power back on and come back to collect Burgess’s head once he was done with Mercer. Get rid of both of them at the same time.
As he tugged Mercer’s body toward the ladder, snow landed on the exposed skin of his neck. He shuddered. Whatever it was that had ripped Burgess apart had to be close by. It must have left his head in the pile of dirt they were processing as… what? A joke? To generate fear?
He grunted, trying to turn Mercer’s frame to fit through the gap. He was so heavy and the temperature made each breath burn like fire in his lungs.
A low rumble issued from behind him, over by the creek, and he turned to look in that direction. He could see nothing, even the false sunrise of the sodium bulb was obscured by the snow-haze. He grunted again and turned back around.
He nearly yelped when he saw Mercer’s eyes were open. Not only that but he was reaching beneath his jacket. Reaching for the gun he kept holstered to his ribs.
Vinson stamped on his hand but as he withdrew it to stamp again, his foot became tangled in Mercer’s jacket. He tried to wriggle free and kicked out with the other foot. It struck Mercer’s face, a dark smudge immediately appearing on his cheek.
Mercer growled and tried to raise himself in order to reach the gun. He was a tough bastard. His eyes looked like they belonged to someone else as they tried to focus. Vinson kicked him again and this time he felt and heard the crack as his boot connec
ted with Mercer’s cheek again. Something had broken. This time Mercer’s eyes widened for a moment as he fell back unconscious again.
Vinson was breathing heavily, his lungs screaming. He coughed violently and spat over the side of the gantry. He had to get moving.
He pulled Mercer to the edge, his feet overhanging the drop. A cold, greasy sweat had gathered on his brow and he wiped it away on the back of his hand. He felt it freeze to his skin and crackle.
“Enjoy the trip,” he whispered, pushing with whatever remaining strength was in his body. Mercer slid forward then dropped over the edge.
The impact would have been better if the snow had not been present. Watching as his body was dashed against the rocks below would have been entertaining. As it was, his body toppled forward and he fell face-first, slightly twisting to one side so his shoulder seemed to take most of the impact. Disappointingly, there was no sharp splintering sound as bones were smashed to pieces. It was like landing on a soft mattress.
He climbed down and stood beside the body. The snow reached up to his knees now. If it continued like this it would be waist-high by dawn. He looked up at the lights, the flakes briefly illuminated as they passed through. They had diminished in size and number in the last few minutes.
He set about dragging Mercer toward the creek. Surprisingly it was far easier than it had been on the gantry. His body slid across the snow, despite his size. It was only twenty feet to the creek but all the while he kept his eyes on the bridge that led from their camp. It was unlikely but the risk of being disturbed was still real.
He kicked Mercer the final few steps. His body rolled over and over like a giant snowball. Vinson smiled. The last time he’d done this was as a child, when he’d made a snowman. Of course, there hadn’t been a human body inside the snow then, but it was almost the same.
He stood on the bank and looked down at the water. It was inky, almost silent at this spot. The water was deeper here than elsewhere but flowed at a good rate. Once Mercer was in the water, he would be dragged downstream for hundreds and hundreds of miles before there was even a slim chance of him being found. By then the claim would be shut down and everyone gone their separate ways. Mercer would be just another missing miner.
