Godland

by Stuart R. West

  By the light of the moon, Shannon saw Lindsay clearly. The skin around her eyes was swollen from crying. Shannon said through the rag, her words barely audible, “Are you alright?” After a long pause, Lindsay nodded her head.

  Thank God. A very small gift in their hopeless situation, but one Shannon embraced.

  Peter made better time than he thought possible. At this rate, he’d arrive at his destination earlier than planned. Having not slept in over twenty-four hours, he felt alive, exuberant. Yet, every time he anticipated the hunt, his excitement dwindled by the inevitability of seeing his father.

  Peter had grown up on the farm in Godwin, Kansas. His father called their town “Godland, Kansas.” He said, “God blessed our land as something special, something fertile, where the soil grows great wonders to feed the American people.” “Hell on Earth” seemed more accurate.

  Peter never had a say in working on his father’s farm—forced into it at the age of three. Along with his older brother, Matt, they toiled in the fields for up to twelve hours a day. Sunburned and blistered hands were their only rewards. Clothed in their father’s hand-me-downs, they ate just enough to survive. He and his brother shared a bed in a small bedroom. Peter used to pull the mattress to the floor while his brother slept on the box spring. They never let their father know. He would’ve found some reason to disapprove.

  Edwin hadn’t wanted them to attend school, at first. Thanks to the intervention of Peter’s mother, though, Edwin grudgingly relented. They rode the bus into Karlin every day, eeking out their high school education. They barely managed that. No time for homework. Seven hours of school, followed by another seven hours in the field, forced Peter to drop out in his junior year.

  Worst of all were the beatings, though. The old bastard hit him and his brother raw with a belt, buckle end up. Their father lashed them across their backs, their legs, everywhere he could reach. In his youthful naïveté, Peter couldn’t understand it.

  One time, he asked his father, “Why?”

  “Because, it’s divine retribution,” said Edwin. “God put me on this green earth to raise you boys into becoming the best, most God-fearing men you can be.” If that’s what God wished for, Peter despised God. But he grew to fear his father. Not God.

  “But mostly, I beat you boys because I can.” Peter never forgot his father’s gleeful grin, full of both mirth and malice.

  Oddly enough, Peter found solace in the most unlikely of manners. Watching his father slaughter the livestock, he wondered what it’d be like. He asked his father if he could try. His father smiled, proud of him for the first time, and put him to work.

  The first time Peter approached one of the pigs with the killing knife, his stomach cramped up. He stared at the pig for the longest time, hoping to be man enough to follow through. His father, watching from the fence, taunted him. Called him “sissy” and other such names. Finally, he harangued Peter into the awful chore. Peter drew back the knife and dragged it across the pig’s throat. Much easier than he thought it’d be. The pig released a mortifying death squeal, pitched higher than a whistle. Blood splashed onto his work boots. He smiled at his father.

  Peter found a way to make it work for him. A secret scenario only he knew about. When Peter pulled the knife across the pig’s throat, he imagined his father’s neck under the knife. From that day on, he volunteered for the slaughter work, deriving what vicarious pleasures he could.

  But when Peter turned eighteen, he’d finally had enough.

  He remembered taking his older brother, Matt, aside. “Mattie, I’m leaving. And you should do the same.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Matt. “What will you do?” Long ago Peter realized his brother resigned himself to living out this awful existence. He didn’t understand things could be better. Believing in the bile their father spewed, Matt stupidly accepted “life” on the farm as God’s plan.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do,” replied Peter. “But anything’s better than this. If this is why God put me on this earth, He can go straight to hell!”

  Matt’s jaw dropped. “Peter, you don’t really mean that.” He placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder as if trying to get him to retract his blasphemous statement.

  “No, I really do. And Dad can go to hell, too. I’m sure that’s where he came from.”

  Peter saw the planted seed of doubt spring to life in Matt’s eyes. Just a small seed, but a promising start.

  “I mean it, Matt,” continued Peter. “Leave now. Take Mary with you if you can.” Peter tossed some clothes and other essentials into a paper sack. “Goodbye, Mattie.”

  Peter stopped by the kitchen on his way out, just long enough to steal twenty dollars from his mother’s purse, and hitched his way to Kansas City—vowing never to come back.

  Yet, sometimes things changed. Only hours away before he rolled back into Godwin, Kansas. The return of the prodigal son.

  Something nagged at Peter, though. After his current business endeavor with his father concluded, could he count on never hearing from the old shit again? Or would the bastard be a constant nuisance, asking for more money? The thought of Edwin blackmailing him weighed heavily on him. Peter might have to readjust some of the details in their business dealing.

  The memory of slashing his first pig’s throat brought a grin to his face. The ear-piercing squeal echoed in his mind like a recollection of a nostalgic, sunny day.

  Jason didn’t want him to go. He didn’t understand Matt’s driving need to go.

  Once Jason finally realized Matt wouldn’t back down, he reluctantly agreed. Only under the stipulation that if he didn’t return within twenty-four hours, Jason would call Detective Sidarski.

  Of course, Matt knew better than to tell Jason his father was absolutely insane. Peter, always the wiser brother, realized this many years before Matt. Once Matt embraced this harsh reality, it helped him come to terms with his father’s abusive behavior. At least he understood it better.

  The saying goes, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” That adage had always troubled Matt. He wondered if he carried the “evil gene” his father possessed. Would he wake one morning, deciding to be a bastard the rest of his life? Had his father always been evil? Yes. At least as far as Matt could remember.

  Matt looked out the window at the endless flatlands, his only companion on his journey. Those and his ruminations.

  His thoughts kept returning to his sister, Mary…

  During his senior year, on a particularly sweltering day, Matt felt sick on the school bus. The air conditioning had apparently given out. Windows were down, making matters worse. Dust and heat blew in, cooking them inside the ambulatory oven on wheels. As the bus sped down the gravel roads, Matt’s stomach churned like a butter mill.

  As always, the other kids on the bus shunned them. Matt was okay with that. Chores occupied every waking moment at home, so the bus rides were Matt’s only opportunity to spend time with Mary.

  “Are you okay, Matt?” asked Mary. She wore one of their mother’s dresses, the only wardrobe allowed her. Looking like something out of the forties, the dress was a gaudy, floral-patterned affair. With the corners pinned up and fabric draping down in large folds, Mary practically swam in the dress.

  “I think so. Why?”

  Mary placed two fingers to her lips to suppress a chuckle. Matt loved seeing this side of his sister. When she smiled, her entire demeanor changed. “You look kind of sick,” she said.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Must’ve been something I ate.” He did feel sick. But as her older brother, he wanted to shield her from anything upsetting. His duty as a man.

  “If you say so.” She looked out at the dust flitting across the road. “Matt?”

  “Hm?”

  “How do you think Peter’s doing?”

  Since Peter had dropped out of high school, he had grown even more withdrawn, more sullen. Sometimes he scared Matt, other times he saddened him. “I think he’s doing about as good as can b
e expected. What do you think?”

  Lines creased her forehead, too many for a teenager. “I’m worried about him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s…different.”

  “Different from what?”

  “Different from you, I guess…” she trailed off. Matt always trusted his sister’s judgment, but she really didn’t know Peter very well. Not like he did.

  “Well, I would hope we’re different.”

  “You know what I mean, Matt.”

  “No, really, what do you mean?”

  “I guess, I think he might be…dangerous, maybe?” Mary dropped her voice to a cautious whisper.

  Matt knew Peter had been through some hard times. He’d never heard the full story, as Peter never talked about himself much, but the scuttlebutt around school was Peter had asked out a cheerleader. She rejected him, laughed at him. Sure, Peter walked around in a bitter cloud of sullenness. But dangerous? “He’s not dangerous, Mary.”

  “He frightens me sometimes.”

  “Has he done something to you?”

  “No. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Mary looked at Matt, her bottom lip quivering. “He reminds me of Father.” The other students hushed their conversations, straining to listen in on theirs.

  Matt didn’t see it. Yet, he realized the trait could be dormant. An extremely violent man, their father’s mood changed at the drop of a hat. Matt hoped the behavior wasn’t hereditary. He didn’t want to become that man. “He’s not like Father.”

  “I don’t know…” Close to tears, Mary noticed the sudden onlookers. She sank down in her seat, hunching her shoulders to ward off unwanted eyes. “I’ve seen the way he looks at the animals, sometimes. The way his eyes seem…glazed over, maybe?”

  “Mary, is that why you don’t talk to Peter much?”

  “I guess so. And, you know, because that’s the way Momma and Daddy want it. The way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Mary, that’s not Peter’s fault.”

  “I know.”

  “And even if Peter does take after Father, that’s not his fault, either.”

  “I know. The Good Book says the sins of the father are to be repeated by their sons, though.” Matt’s shoulders sunk. Maybe Peter was right. Their father used the Bible for his own means, a method of brainwashing, Mary his newest victim.

  “Mary—” He didn’t want to deflate her beliefs, so he stopped. Struggling with his own beliefs was hard enough.

  Mary waved her hands through the air. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Matt.” Her abrupt change amazed him. Her eyes lit up, the smile returned, the lines on her forehead wiped clean.

  “Okay.”

  “Here! I almost forgot.” Mary burrowed through her notebook. She pulled out a piece of construction paper, green and yellow flower cut-outs pasted upon it. “I made this for you today in art class.”

  Matt studied the gift. On the underside, the thickness of the glue weighed down the paper. A flower frame surrounded a drawing of a boy and girl holding hands. The drawing’s realism took Matt aback. He immediately recognized the subjects.

  “This is really good! I never knew you could draw like this.”

  “You like it?” Her eyes danced, full of hope.

  “I do. I really do. You should consider becoming an artist.”

  A hint of a frown crossed her face. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. Father—”

  Before she crashed back down to earth, Matt forged on to keep her aloft. “Forget about Father.”

  Mary fought the battle to laugh and lost. “Matt!”

  “I mean it, Mary. It’s really, really good. Forget about being a farmer’s wife. You should be an artist. No. Wait. An…artiste!” Matt affected a comically stereotypical Frenchman’s accent. “It is…to die for!” He kissed his fingers, tossing them in the air with a flourish.

  Mary roared with laughter. “Matt…shhh. Quiet down. Everyone’s looking.”

  “Let them look, mademoiselle. You are L’Artiste Extraordinaire!”

  Finally, their laughter died down. They slumped down against the weathered bus seat.

  “Matt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know, you’re my favorite.” She rolled her head against the seat to look at Matt.

  “I know. You’re my favorite, too.”

  “I love you, Matt.”

  “Love you, too.” Matt grabbed her hand. They held hands for the rest of the agonizing bus ride home.

  Matt’s last good memory of childhood.

  Visions of what his bastard father did to Mary overwhelmed him. Matt shuddered and rolled up the car window.

  Did his father take Shannon? And, if so, why? A sudden wave of nausea soured his stomach. He didn’t want to think it, but had to. Edwin raped his own daughter… so…what if…? Matt lurched forward, cupping a hand over his mouth.

  He had been a sideline player in his own life for too long now. Long overdue to take charge. Just please don’t let it be too late.

  Strange. Matt swore he’d never visit his father again. He hadn’t seen Shannon in years, much to his shame. Yet, here he was on his way toward a rendezvous with his father, and perhaps his daughter.

  Peter would call it “fate.” His father would preach about “God’s plan.”

  Maybe it was God’s plan for Matt to return to Godwin, Kansas. To save his daughter.

  He floored the accelerator.

  Chapter Seven

  Since the death of the lawman, Joshua had remained uncustomarily quiet. Swaying back and forth on the truck seat, cradling one giant knee underneath his chin, he gazed out the window in silence. Edwin took great pains in explaining that sometimes in God’s righteous war, there are bound to be casualties. The boy just didn’t get it.

  Edwin pulled into the little town of Shelton and turned onto a narrow strip of a dirt road. Having done some trading here in the past, he was familiar with the area. Out past Ned Shepherd’s farm lay an expansive plot of land going to waste. The landowner had up and died. Now the bank wanted to sell it. Vacant for going on two years now, a wooded area sat deep behind the barren wheat fields. Perfect for Edwin’s—and God’s—needs.

  He didn’t think to bring a shovel. Hardly thought it necessary. But the boy could dig a shallow grave with his hands. Wasn’t much he couldn’t do, really, as long as it didn’t require any brainpower. Edwin instructed Joshua to bury the body in the woods.

  Joshua stared blankly at Edwin, and then finally nodded. He lifted the body out of the truck with nary a peep from the girls. Edwin smiled, picking his teeth with his fingernail. The lawman had been nothing but a road bump; nothing he couldn’t overcome on his road to reward.

  After about forty-five minutes, Joshua returned to the truck, panting. Sweat dripped from his hair and beard. Dirt and scratches covered his arms. “I’m right proud of you, boy,” said Edwin. Joshua opened his black hole of a mouth, muttering. “Yep, real proud!”

  Two hours later, they exited onto the gravel road leading to the farm. Edwin knew the fifteen-mile jaunt by heart. He drove at breakneck speed. Since no police officers ever came around these parts, it seemed like a good opportunity to make up for lost time.

  He sped past the long-vacated, one-room schoolhouse where he had met his wife. The shack’s roof had fallen in. Nothing but haybales held up the walls. Those and fading memories. He rolled back his shoulders and jutted his chin out. No need to dwell on the past.

  Finally, he pulled into his driveway. It felt good to be back in Godland.

  The truck door opened with a scraping sound born of rust. Edwin stepped out into the cool night air, stretched, and cracked his back. His work was finished. Now it was all about the future.

  Gravel pinged against the bottom of the truck, a hailstorm shooting up from hell. The truck crawled to a stop. Shannon breathed deeply, preparing herself.

  The tarp pulled away with a slash and a snap. Shannon squinted i
nto the scant illumination provided by the stars. The beastly man loomed over her, eclipsing the moon. He reached in. Grabbing Shannon around the waist, he heaved her onto his broad shoulders. Shannon’s nose filled with the sour stench of perspiration and other smells she couldn’t identify. She didn’t try too hard.

  He carried her around the side of a white house. Green shutters sagged like a stroke victim’s face. Paint peeled off the shingles like blisters. Shannon, her head bobbing up and down on the man’s back, took a mental inventory of her surroundings. They passed a long shed, the tin roof only partially attached. The man stopped in front of two splintered wooden doors in the ground. A mound of cement—a fabricated anthill—sat nestled between the shed and doors.

  The doors opened with a squonk. The giant took Shannon down narrow concrete stairs. Her claustrophobia grew as she watched the night sky’s light vanish. Dirt walls closed in on her. Lowered into the ground, buried alive. She squirmed, kicked, screamed through her gag. The man stroked her back gently as if calming a fever-ridden child. Then a scrabbling sound, a key in a lock. Another door groaned open. Inside, the air felt stagnant, still, yet cool. A sole light bulb dangling on a string spread out a dim circle of light. Dusty jars stocked on wooden shelves lined the dirt walls.

  The man lowered her onto a filthy blanket. He left, leaving the door open behind him. Shannon struggled to get to her feet, but the ropes binding her wouldn’t loosen enough.

  The man re-entered, this time with Lindsay hoisted over his shoulder. When the man dropped her to the dirt, Lindsay scooted close to Shannon. He left again, turning sideways to squeeze his bulk through the small doorframe. Then he locked the door behind him. The clack sounded like a mousetrap snapping on its prey.

  Only able to communicate through their eyes, the girls stared at one another, desperate.

  Minutes later, the man re-entered, holding a knife and bucket. He shambled toward them, a misshapen, giant baby learning to walk.

  He picked Shannon up with one hand, turning her to face the wall. Shannon clamped her eyes shut, anticipating her final moment of life.