Godland

by Stuart R. West

  Okay, now I have something to work with.

  Remain cool and calm. No more lapses into hysteria. Her overwhelming urge to survive trumped all.

  Peter shut off his headlights as he idled down the driveway. No sense in having his car noticed. His Town Car didn’t fit in with the rest of the country bumpkins’ choice of transport, mostly pick-up trucks.

  As if to prove his point, Edwin’s old truck sat at the head of the driveway. Peter couldn’t believe he still drove that piece of shit. No, scratch that. The cheap son-of-a-bitch would drive it until it dropped. Just as he did his wife and would have done to Peter had he stayed on the farm.

  No one would have ever called the house nice. Serviceable, maybe, but never nice. Now, though, it was a rotting pile of debris. Every inch, nook, and falling shingle aptly represented the rotting life inside the farmhouse.

  Light trickled out from the living room’s closed blinds.

  Oh, good, Daddy dearest is home.

  He walked up the steps to the kitchen door, the only door anyone ever used. The front door of the house had remained boarded up for as long as Peter could remember.

  His hand trembled when he knocked. He willed it to stop. It did.

  He hefted his heavy bag in front of himself to ward off any contact. And perhaps for protection as well.

  When the door opened, Peter’s heart knocked. His father stood in the kitchen, shorter then Peter remembered. Older, more weathered, but still the same bastard as always. Except for the new fashion accessories—a bloodied Band-Aid matted to his cheek and a cloth wound around his hand.

  “Well, if it isn’t the high and mighty Peter Brookes.” Edwin’s lip snarled up, an expression Peter remembered too well.

  “I thought we understood we aren’t going to use names.” Peter swept past his father and entered the kitchen. Everything remained the same as it had been twenty years before, except much filthier.

  “It won’t matter none anyhow. You got my money?” The old man framed his mouth into a skeletal grin, hungry like a wolf.

  “Yes, I have your money.” Peter dropped the bag on the kitchen table, unzipped it, and pulled out a smaller bag. “It’s all there.” Intentionally, he tossed the bag out of Edwin’s reach. It plopped to the floor. His father snatched it up, greedily prospecting inside. His eyes lit up, displaying more life than Peter had ever seen from him.

  “It’s all the same to you, I’m a’gonna’ count it.” Edwin sat at the table, humming, as he separated the bills into piles.

  Peter noticed the computer. “You can afford to buy a computer, but you couldn’t buy clothes for us?” He kept his tone even but he wanted to kick the chair out from underneath Edwin.

  “Hee!” With his gaze firmly locked onto the money, he said, “Didn’t buy no damn computer, boy. That school in Karlin done gave it to me…a consolation prize…when things didn’t work out in their fancy remedial schooling.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ll find out, boy. All in good time.”

  Not wanting to engage in mind games, Peter changed the subject. Business, the only reason I’m here. “You mentioned a surprise?”

  “I’ve got you two gals. But it’s gonna’ cost you double.”

  “I see.” Peter kept his poker face in check. Barely. “So, you’re asking for another $500,000?”

  “That’s right.” He pointed his finger at Peter, ever judgmental and always unnecessary. “And I want it soon.”

  “You’ll get what’s coming to you. You can count on that.” Of course, Peter didn’t intend on giving him any more money. In fact, he looked forward to tying up this particular loose end. His way.

  “You better get it to me. Otherwise, I might have to tell someone about our little arrangement.”

  “I said you’ll get it, Edwin.”

  “Boy, in this house, you call me ‘Father’ or ‘sir’.”

  “Whatever you say, Edwin.” His father scowled at him. “Now. Where’s my end of the bargain?”

  “On my bed.”

  The smell of rot followed Peter down the hallway. Wallpaper rippled off the walls in waves. The ever-present painting of Jesus sat on the floor. A dust-free rectangle of wall represented its old home. Shaking his head in revulsion, he pushed the bedroom door open. A girl lay on the bed, her hands tied to her feet. A gag pulled tightly into her mouth. Gift wrapped especially for him.

  Peter sat next to her, drew a finger across her cheek. Her eyes widened, her fear nearly palpable.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” said Peter. “Before we begin our activities, I want to thank you for your participation. Your valiant sacrifice. It means a lot to me. And I want you to understand that it’s nothing personal.”

  The girl flailed about on the bed, attempting to escape Peter’s touch.

  “We’ll begin soon.” Peter turned. A monstrous, deformed man blocked his path. “Jesus Christ!” The thing bobbed its head, its tongue lolling. Dirty long hair dropped into his face, food crumbs speckling his beard. Snarling, his one working eye focused on Peter.

  Behind the behemoth, Edwin laughed. “Peter, say hello to your little brother.”

  The creature approached him.

  This must be Mary’s son. Good Christ.

  “Get him away from me. I want nothing to do with him.” Peter backed into the bedroom. His legs butted up against the bed. Nowhere to go.

  Edwin balled his hands up to his eyes, feigning a crying gesture. “Joshua, looks like you’re scaring your big brother. Poor baby. Go on upstairs now. Go on, boy. Git!”

  The thing whimpered as it left the room.

  Peter felt his adrenaline rush away, flipping the switch to his analytical side. This creature posed another problem he would have to deal with. He might have to get rid of it. No witnesses. Probably do it a favor by putting it out of its misery anyway.

  Seething, Peter knocked into his father as he passed him. He sat at the kitchen table and opened his bag, checking the rifle thoroughly. “Cut loose the girl and bring her to me,” he ordered.

  Time to get ’er done, as they say in Hicksville.

  Jason answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, Jay. Just checking in as I said I would. I’m almost there.”

  “I’ll be glad when you’re done with…with this…whatever.”

  Matt sighed. “Me, too. Shouldn’t take long.” He hoped. The closer Matt drove to his childhood home, the more apprehensive he grew.

  “What are you going to do, Matt? I mean, if your father has your daughter?”

  After a long pause, he said, “I’m going to bring her back with me.”

  “If he has her, you really need to call the police. Don’t try and do it on your own.”

  “Okay.” Godwin had no police officers, though. A town with a low crime-rate, Godwin residents found the idea of law enforcement to be a waste of tax money. On the rare occasion of a crime, a cop drove in from Karlin, nearly forty-five minutes away. But what Jason didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

  “I mean it. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I won’t. I’ve got to go, Jay.”

  “I love you, Matt.”

  Before Matt could respond, his phone beeped and died. He turned on the dome light. No signal bars. The now worthless cell phone sailed up onto the dashboard. He hoped he would get a chance to tell Jason he loved him, too.

  Chapter Ten

  With the girl fighting him, Edwin had a devil of a time cutting the ropes.

  “Damn it, girl, hold still. And don’t you dare try and cut me again, you little bitch!” Disappointment saddled in when he realized he wouldn’t have his way with the girl. No matter. With his newfound fortune, he could buy (and damn near own) a couple of sluts the likes of Miss Lindsay Bellowes. God watched over him.

  Finally, he succeeded in cutting the ropes. He tore the rag from her mouth.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Lindsay said.

  “Why, I ain’t gonna’ do anything to yo
u. My son, on the other hand…” He broke into a chuckle. “Get on your feet.” He yanked her off the bed and ram-rodded her into the kitchen.

  Peter looked up from his gun inspection. “Sit down, please.”

  The girl sat across from Peter. Edwin stood behind her in case she decided to make another run for it.

  “Now, I’m a fair man,” said Peter. “And I’m a sporting man. That’s why I’m going to give you a head start.” He looked directly into the girl’s terrified eyes.

  “What…what do you mean?”

  “I’m going to let you walk right out that door.” Peter extended his forefinger, his thumb cocked in the air, and pointed toward the kitchen entrance. “And I’m going to give you a ten-minute head start. I believe that to be more than fair. And a bigger challenge for me.” He closed one eye and dropped the thumb on his fist as if shooting a gun.

  “Don’t be stupid, boy!” said Edwin. “She can get away.”

  “Please…shut…your…mouth, Edwin.”

  “Oh my God!” Lindsay’s voice crawled to a dry whisper. She whimpered, inhaling deep shuddering breaths. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to hunt you,” said Peter. “Now, stop crying. You’re going to need your wits about you.”

  Edwin’s nerves frazzled. The girl kept on blubbering like Mary used to do. It took all the control he could muster to not slap her into silence.

  “Please be aware the closest neighbor is at least ten miles away. If you think you can make it there, then by all means, have at it,” continued Peter. “But it’s going to be a long haul. You also might try following the gravel roads out to the highway. But that’s also a good fifteen-mile stretch. It’s your decision.” He placed his hand gently on the girl’s arm. “Do you understand?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I can,” replied Peter quietly.

  Edwin smiled, his heart warmed. There may be hope for Peter yet.

  “Your ten minutes begin now.” Peter checked his watch. “If I were you, I’d get going.” She sat frozen, barely moving. With a couple of chin juts, Peter urged her on. Slowly, she pulled herself up and out of disbelief. She dropped one last doe-eyed glance at Peter, her fingers running over the back of the chair. Then she walked toward the kitchen door, picking up her pace as she went. With one last sniffle and a sleeve pulled across her running nose, she ran out into the night.

  Edwin watched Peter polish his gun, chuckling at his lustful touch. How a man might treat a whore.

  “You gonna’ kiss that gun next, boy?”

  Peter stopped long enough to glower at Edwin. “Maybe I should make you kiss it, you bastard.”

  “Big hollow threats from a little man. You ain’t got the guts.” It’s never wise to goad a man with a loaded gun, but Edwin knew Peter didn’t have the balls to follow through.

  “You might be surprised.”

  “What’d you say, boy?” Edwin thought he’d heard Peter right, but couldn’t be sure. He’d tolerate no insolence from his kin.

  “Never mind.” Peter reached into his bag, pulled out a knife and something resembling binoculars. He strapped the device around his head.

  “What in the hell?” Edwin howled at the sight of his boy. Made him look like a damn giant bug.

  “I realize you’re not intelligent enough to grasp the concept, but these are night-vision goggles.”

  “Some hunter you are. Christ Almighty. I never had to use anything like that.”

  Peter stood, carefully securing the hunting knife in his belt. Everything he did appeared prissy to Edwin. He wondered if he might be one of them queers.

  Next, Peter slung the rifle around his back and checked his watch. “It’s time.” At the kitchen door, he said, “I’ll be back for round two.”

  Edwin felt good. Better than good, great. He looked around the house, ruminating on his last night here. Good riddance. By this time tomorrow, he’d be on his way to Florida.

  The later the night dragged on, the colder the cellar grew. With her arms bound, Shannon couldn’t warm herself. She looked up at the jars, wishing she still had her glass splinter. She wouldn’t hesitate using it either. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

  Since Lindsay had screamed out earlier, she strained to listen for something—anything. She closed her eyes, even held her breath, hoping to hone her auditory senses. At one point, she thought she heard a car crunch over the gravel. Maybe a police officer? She never heard the car leave. It gave her a sliver of hope to hang onto.

  Later, a sharp crack rang out in the distance. The reverberation across the flatlands made it sound like several explosions. Her heart pounded. Her temples throbbed.

  A gunshot? But who was shot, and who did the shooting?

  Shannon recognized the heavy footfalls of Joshua coming down the stairs. After fumbling with the lock, he came toward her with an immobile face. Determined. This time he didn’t indulge his curiosity.

  He carried her out and up the stairs to the farmhouse.

  Remembering the steps this time, Lindsay leapt down them. She hit the gravel running, high school track paying off in spades.

  Her heart raced faster than her legs.

  She couldn’t comprehend this unfathomable scenario. A horrific, surrealistic nightmare, the kind that repeats over and over. Only real.

  Shannon’s words looped through her mind. If she didn’t pull it together, they’d never make it out alive.

  Running past the cellar, she paused. But just for a second. She couldn’t open the padlock. If she could make it to a neighbor’s house, she’d come back for Shannon. With lots of armed cops. Make the sons-of-bitches pay.

  Like it or not, she was their best chance at survival now.

  Time to drop the cry-baby diapers and put on my big-girl panties. Be cool.

  She studied the farm and the land surrounding it. Pigs squealed out from a fenced area next to a battered barn. If she hid in the barn, the clamoring pigs would surely give away her position. A sitting target.

  A wooded area lay beyond the cornfields. Within reach. But she might end up lost. Better option than murdered by savages.

  She guessed two minutes had passed since she left the house. The new man said she had a ten-minute head start before he came after her. Ten minutes to live. A lot could happen in ten minutes.

  Wiping the last of her tears away, she took a deep, calming breath—the way her coach had taught her—then sprinted toward the cornfield.

  The dry stalks snapped briskly as she trampled through them. She plunged into a narrow, empty row. Unimpeded by the stalks, she ran down it, quieter, faster. The woods were in sight, as was hope.

  Her legs grew heavy as if she’d been running for hours. Mentally, she had been. She needed to rest. Out of the question. She had to put as much distance as possible between her and the mad men at the farm.

  Across the field, she heard the kitchen door crack open, echoing sharply across the grounds. Her newfound bravery abandoned her. Paralyzed with fear, Lindsay dropped, shaking in the field.

  Peter stepped off the stairs and adjusted his goggles. Much better. He scanned the area, everything tinted green via his night vision.

  If I were a girl, terrified for my life, where would I go? Peter smiled. People were so easy to read. I’d head for the gravel roads, looking for traffic.

  Little does she realize, though, traffic is rare in this hellhole, particularly at night.

  Peter cocked his rifle. Ki-chak. A good hunter is always prepared.

  He jogged down the driveway to meet the gravel road, eyes and ears alert, checking both directions. The road appeared empty. By his estimation, the girl could’ve possibly run three quarters of a mile in ten minutes. Particularly in as good a shape as she appeared. The road lay flat enough for him to see that distance.

  She’s hiding, still on the farmland.

  At first, he thought the girl weak. Easy prey. Maybe he underestimated her, as unlikely as that seemed. But she could be more formida
ble than he gave her credit for. The thrill of the chase kicked in, and Peter’s senses heightened, rising to the challenge.

  He ran back up the driveway, searching the area. His gaze locked onto the cornfield. Should have been his first destination. Most likely was hers. Squinting, he spotted several unnaturally broken stalks, bent toward the ground like surrendering soldiers. He slung the gun around his shoulder and hurtled toward the field.

  Peter crouched down before entering as his pulse picked up. He realized he’d been grinning like a lunatic. Couldn’t be helped. He wished the pursuit to go on, sad at an abrupt conclusion. The impending conclusion thrilled him more than any sexual conquest could.

  He picked up the girl’s trail much easier than a deer’s. More broken stalks led off to the right. He followed the path. Then the trail went cold. Just stopped like she’d been whisked away. Backtracking, he found light footprints in the dirt and tracked her steps. Again, they ended abruptly. He stood. Focused. Listening for his quarry.

  Close. So very close, he could feel it in his bones. The clatter of crickets stopped. Weeding out the distant calls of animals, he heard something. The faintest of sounds, something unnatural to a farm’s habitat. Muffled breathing, quiet as an infant’s whisper. About thirty feet from where he stood. Cradling the gun in the crook of his arm, he stealthily stepped between two stalks. The breathing grew louder, possibly one row over. He sidled between two more stalks, cautiously avoiding brushing against the dried plants. In front of him, a tall stalk shivered. A dark figure huddled behind it. Hoisting the gun up, Peter captured her in his sights.

  “Got you,” he whispered.

  The girl shot to her feet. She whirled right, running toward the road. Peter pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked, blowing back sharply into his shoulder. Blood and splintered bone exploded from the girl’s arm. She crashed down into the dirt.

  Unexpected dizziness overtook Peter. He dropped to his knees. The impact clocked his teeth together. He pitched forward, chin in the dirt. The contents of his stomach emptied. A bitter taste filled his mouth; an even sharper feeling flooded his soul.