Godland

by Stuart R. West

  Matt slid the table roughly off Edwin’s face, ensuring his arms remained pinned. “Talk.”

  “Look in the bag by the stove.”

  Matt glanced over at the stove. Nestled between the refrigerator and the stove sat a burlap bag. Green bills spilled from the top.

  “I’ll give you half that money—$250,000.” His initial cough turned into a laugh.

  Matt considered. It would be a way out of his financial problems. But how did Edwin come by this kind of cash? He had always been dirt poor.

  “Where’d you get the money? Tell me.” Matt suspected the answer, but he needed his father to say it.

  “That ain’t important, right now. Son.”

  Matt’s hatred for Edwin spiked. And clarity washed into his mind like a tidal wave. He suddenly understood Peter’s motivations. Peter was merely fulfilling the blood lust his father had bred into him. Mentally unstable, but understandable. But his father—he did this for money. Shame washed over Matt for having even contemplated taking the blood money.

  Behind Matt, the kitchen door crashed open. Shannon screamed, “Dad!” Matt whipped around. The table slid from underneath him. Edwin scrabbled away like a wrinkled, red crab.

  Shannon ran to Matt’s side. Momentarily distracted, Matt turned his attention back to his father. Edwin, now on the living room floor and aiming with one eye closed, pointed the rifle at Matt. Matt dove in the opposite direction, trying to draw fire away from Shannon. A blast ripped through the small room. Gunshot tore through Matt. Immense pain set his body on fire before he collapsed.

  Shannon watched her father twist in the air and drop to the floor.

  “Dad! Oh God!”

  The old man appeared shaken for a moment. He swung his rifle toward her. Shannon froze. Her grandfather leered, his green teeth nearly incandescent.

  Matt stirred. “No!” Clutching his side, he dragged himself across the kitchen floor.

  Edwin shuffled the rifle back toward Matt. Matt bounded across the room on all fours. He wrenched Edwin’s gun-bearing arm up.

  Shannon scanned the kitchen, looking for a weapon. Her gaze locked onto the rusty scythe. It scraped the floor with a teeth-jarring sound when she hefted it up. She ran toward the wrestling men.

  Another explosion filled the house, plaster and dust falling from the ceiling. A curl of smoke rose from the gun. Shannon stood ready with the scythe, ready to use it, hoping she wouldn’t have to.

  Her father grinned. An unsettling grin. “You’re out of bullets now, old man. Now what are you gonna do?” Matt seized the rifle and flung it aside. Edwin lay back, exhausted. Matt straddled his father’s chest.

  “Get offa’ me, you little bastard!”

  Her father said nothing. But his smile reminded Shannon of the old man’s death grin.

  “If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out!” Edwin thrust his thumbs into Matt’s eye sockets. Matt shook his head rapidly until the old man’s thumbs slipped away.

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” countered Matt. His hands closed around the old man’s throat, his fingers tightening. Edwin’s face reddened. His boots thrashed on the floor, a supine tap-dancer. His eyes bulged. Matt released Edwin’s throat, pulled his head up by the ears, and slammed it onto the floor.

  Shannon forced herself to look away. She didn’t know what to do. What to feel. She didn’t want her father to murder. Yet, her grandfather deserved to die. She wanted the old man dead. And those feelings filled her with darkness.

  “This is for what you did to my daughter and her friend!” screamed her father. “This is for Mary!” He slammed Edwin’s head down with each breath he took. “This is for Mom! For me! Even for Peter! All the lives you ruined! Rot in hell!”

  When the yelling stopped, Shannon braved a look. Matt sat on top of the old man, his hands again wrapped around Edwin’s throat. His breathing wheezed in through his mouth, blasted out from his nose. A bloodstained butterfly spread its wings down the side of his shirt.

  The old man lay still. His eyes closed and his mouth gaped open. Yet, Shannon saw his chest moving up and down.

  He’s still alive. Mixed feelings over the old man’s life disturbed her. But she finally allowed herself to relax. Tension fled her. It’s finally over. She dropped the scythe on the couch. It’s over, my God, it’s over. Retreating to a corner of the room, she crumpled to the floor. She curled up, drawing her knees close to her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she welcomed tears of relief. Cool, life-affirming tears.

  The sound of a freight train filled the room, jolting her alert. She held her hands over her ears, praying for a nightmare. Anything but frightening reality.

  She watched as her father crashed into the wall above her and slid down to the sofa.

  Joshua. Alive and not happy.

  Matt had no recollection of the preceding several minutes. Everything had been a blur. Rage had overtaken him with staggering abandon. His vision had slipped out of focus, sharp circles of brightness blinking in and out. The only thing that mattered was protecting his daughter. Like a tiger protecting his cub.

  Once his vision cleared, he noticed Shannon holding the scythe, nearly as tall as her. She stared at him, yet she didn’t see him. He felt this, knew it with sudden lucidity. In her eyes, he witnessed horror. The murder he was going to commit.

  Matt relaxed his grip from his father’s throat, and then rolled off. Sweat loosened the dirt on his face into running streaks of grime. He winced when he touched the bullet wound below his ribs.

  A horrible bellow filled the room. The windowpanes rattled as the primordial roar thundered. Footsteps approached. Strong hands grabbed Matt and flung him across the room, his face hitting the wall. Dazed, he heard Shannon yell.

  “Joshua! No! He’s good! Good!”

  Matt turned over onto his back. “Oh, my God.” Easily six-and-a-half feet tall, and wider than the doorway, stood his brother, Joshua. Blood spread over his T-shirt. Whimpering like a child, he stared at Shannon.

  “He’s good, Joshua.” She held the scythe high above her small shoulders. “He’s your…brother.”

  Joshua swiveled toward Matt. His lower lip bobbed. He approached Matt, who lay half-twisted on the sofa and nudged his curled up hand in Matt’s direction.

  “That’s right,” she said while inching closer behind Joshua. “He’s your brother.” Blood gushed over one of Matt’s eyes, tinting the room with red. He shut the eye and shifted his good one between Shannon and Joshua.

  “He’s your brother. He’s good.” Shannon’s words remained friendly, but the raised scythe spoke her true intent.

  Joshua’s half-lucid gaze fell upon Edwin on the floor. Attempting to form words, Joshua’s frustrated whimper rose to a shriek. He lunged at Matt. Matt rolled onto the floor while Joshua stumbled into the sofa.

  “Joshua! No!” Shannon buried the scythe into Joshua’s back. His anguished howl was not human. Shannon struggled to extricate the scythe from him. When her hands slipped off the handle, she fell onto the floor.

  Matt pulled his daughter to her feet. His body burned. One eye remained virtually useless, a fiery red eye patch disorienting him. Didn’t matter. “Come on!” He thought of the bedroom upstairs he used to share with Peter. They could lock themselves in there until help arrived.

  Joshua’s moaning followed them to the stairwell. Leaping two stairs at a time, they reached the top.

  Oh God. The lock was on the outside of the door.

  Matt kicked the door open just as Joshua entered the stairwell. Matt pulled Shannon into the room and slammed the door. He thrust his hand toward the door lock, finding nothing there as he feared. He barricaded the door with his back, wedging the heels of his feet against the floor. Joshua pounded up the stairs. He pushed then slammed his fists. Matt nearly fell as Joshua battered the door at his back. Craaaaack! The door splintered, but Matt stood firm.

  Shannon stood in the center of the room, arms shaking at her sides. The room stank of human waste, decay, and dea
th. She gagged, resisting the urge to heave.

  Matt flipped the light switch several times to no effect.

  “Shannon. Search the room. A phone…anything.” Joshua’s attack intensified. Matt felt each thump hammering straight into his throbbing bullet wound.

  “Just…a mattress, a bucket…some clothes…”

  Matt buckled from another strong thrust. Joshua’s unearthly howls continued, unabated. Above Matt, a piece of paneling flew into the room. A few more bashes at most, then the door would fly into pieces.

  “Maybe hit him with the bucket?” Shannon’s voice remained cool, yet Matt felt her underlying terror.

  As he touched his wound again, Matt’s hand fell across something in his pocket. Peter’s knife!

  Matt waved the knife at Shannon. “Shannon, when I open the door, distract him.”

  Shannon crossed the room, stopping in front of the boarded window. A tiny sliver of moonlight slipped in behind her, silhouetting her.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded, ready for battle.

  Matt jumped off the door. He twisted, pressing his back against the wall next to the hinges. The door smashed open, falling to the floor with a bang. Joshua, now quiet, stood unmoving in the doorway. Shannon shivered by the window, so tiny, within the large, bare room. Light from the stairwell fell on her, a spotlight capturing her. Joshua’s target.

  “Joshua? It’s me, your friend, Shannon.”

  Joshua took a step forward. His shadow filled the rectangle of light on the floor.

  “That’s right, Joshua. Shannon. Joshua, your father’s alive.”

  Joshua took several lumbering steps in, and then stopped. The light behind Joshua glinted off the scythe planted in his back.

  “Yes, Joshua. He’s alive.”

  Matt pushed off the wall and drove the knife into Joshua’s chest. Joshua’s mouth dropped as he stumbled backward. Joshua grabbed the knife handle, swinging his other fist at Matt. Matt sidestepped the blow. He jammed the knife handle further in. Joshua swatted at Matt, this time making contact. Matt crashed to the floor. Joshua yanked the knife out and blood spurted from the wound, spilling onto the floor. He raised the knife over Matt, roaring, ready to strike.

  “No, Joshua!” Shannon ran toward the behemoth, barreling into him. She bounced off, dropping next to Matt. Joshua staggered, teetering in the open doorway. Another step backward and he tumbled loudly down the stairwell.

  Matt crawled to the doorway and peered over the top step. Joshua lay splayed at the bottom of the stairs, one leg twisted unnaturally. The scythe, pitching a tent beneath him, raised his chest. Blood pooled onto the floor.

  And still he moaned.

  Matt found the bloody knife and grabbed it tight. He crawled back to his daughter and draped his arm around her shoulders. They huddled together, sobbing, waiting. Joshua’s groans continued, crawling up the stairs toward them. Matt discerned a repeated pattern in his grotesque vocals. After a while, it came clear to Matt’s ears.

  “Daddy. Daddy. No. Daddy,” Joshua seemed to be saying.

  Shannon cupped her hands over her ears. Joshua’s mewling sounded like a sick baby crying for his mother. She felt a heavy sadness, empathy, for Joshua. An innocent, corrupted by his sick father.

  “Dad? We’ve got to help him.” She was realistic, starkly so. Joshua’s life couldn’t be saved, not with the injuries he sustained. But she didn’t want him to suffer. Not any more than he already had.

  Her father winced when he swallowed. “You’re right.” With great effort, he pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll help him.” Three words of mercy. They both understood.

  He shuffled out the door, falling into the jamb before righting himself. The stairwell light fell upon his once-white shirt, now nearly completely red.

  Shannon hugged her knees tighter and listened. She heard a clump. Did he fall? “Dad?”

  “I’m okay, honey…just gonna’ take me a while to get…down the steps.” His voice sounded weak, Joshua’s cries drowning him out.

  Another series of clumps followed. Not footsteps. Sliding down the steps on his bottom.

  Joshua’s moaning finally stopped. No death rattle. Nothing anti-climactic. It just stopped.

  “Shannon?” His voice sounded a mile away.

  Shannon ran to the top step. Her father sat next to Joshua’s still body. “It’s okay, now, honey. Joshua’s no longer suffering.”

  She bit down on her knuckles, tired of crying. But she wanted to cry for Joshua. In his own way, he was as much a victim as she was. Or Lindsay. She let it out. To her ears, her sobbing sounded strangely reminiscent of Joshua’s moans. They were family, after all.

  “Honey? You okay? Shannon? I don’t think I can make it up the…stairs again. But…it’s safe for you to come down.”

  Shannon didn’t want to look. She really didn’t. But she stole a glance anyway. Joshua’s dead eyes were open. She imagined him staring up at her. One leg folded impossibly behind him. A red smile opened up his throat, spilling blood everywhere. Impaled into the floor next to him was the knife. Shannon sprang over his body, her stomach hopscotching after her. After a few false starts, her father climbed to his feet.

  From the living room, she heard a wheezing sound. An unhealthy sound. She peeked into the room.

  “You…son-of-a-bitch. Gonna’…kill you.” Edwin’s arms lay still as his shoulders rocked back and forth with each breath. Even though his words were threatening, he wouldn’t bother them anymore. He just didn’t know it yet.

  Matt glowered at the old man. “Shannon, go to the bedroom and call 911. The farm’s address should be on the mail by the phone, and don’t come out ’til I tell you to.”

  “No…good…ingrate…” The old man coughed.

  “Go, Shannon. I have unfinished business.” She knew what he was going to do. And it filled her with immense satisfaction.

  Matt picked up a sofa pillow and sat down upon his father’s chest. The vile, evil monster’s chest.

  He ruined every life he touched. In fact, had it not been for his father, Matt wouldn’t have been a killer. But now he was a murderer. Simply put, Edwin didn’t deserve to live.

  Matt looked into his father’s hate-filled eyes one final time. He pressed the pillow down onto his face. Matt felt the life leave his father just like he’d felt that of the poor dog earlier. And he felt much more empathy—compassion, even—for the dog.

  But he had one last thing he wanted to say to Edwin. Matt pulled the pillow away and leaned close to his father’s ear.

  “By the way, Dad,” Matt whispered, “I’m a goddamned faggot.” Matt sat up to gauge Edwin’s reaction. His eyes bulged in horror. His tongue licked at the air, gasping for oxygen. Matt smiled. He replaced the pillow and finished the job. “Welcome to Godland, Dad.”

  Then he lost consciousness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Matt woke up in a hospital bed, tubes running out his nose and an IV drip attached to his arm. A mound of bandages covered his side. His mouth tasted like dirt. He felt weak and disoriented. But alive. Something that had seemed out of the realm of possibility a short time ago.

  Shafts of sunlight spiked into the room through venetian blinds. Dust danced and swirled in the sun’s rays. It seemed an age since he’d last seen sunlight.

  Looking around for evidence of visitors, he saw only medical equipment. No flowers, no cards. No purses abandoned for a coffee run. Disappointment set in. He hoped Shannon would be here. But he was alone, just as isolated as he’d felt through most of the previous night.

  And what about Jason? Had anyone bothered calling him? He was probably frantic by now.

  Matt fumbled for the nurse button and pressed it. After a few minutes, a serious-faced woman entered the room.

  “I see you’re awake, Mr. Strothers,” she huffed. She strode across the room and pulled the tube out of Matt’s nose.

  “Water? Ice chips?” Matt didn’t recognize his own voice. A stranger in an even stranger
land.

  “Certainly. You’ve had quite a night.” The nurse didn’t smile. Her usual demeanor, he wondered, or was there something more to it?

  “Where am I?”

  “Karlin Memorial Hospital.” She checked his IV. “You’re lucky. The bullet entered and exited your body without hitting any organs.” She handed Matt a paper cup full of ice chips. He devoured them greedily. “Someone’s been very anxious to speak to you.” With a squeak, she turned on her white sneakers and left the room.

  Matt tried to sit up but lost the battle. He flopped back into bed but fully inflated with hope.

  Shannon, maybe. Or did they get hold of Jason?

  A tall, elderly man with a long face sauntered in. He took off his sheriff’s hat and held it reverentially in front of him.

  “Mr. Strothers? I’m Karlin Sheriff, James Tewkesbury.”

  Matt nodded. Not the company he hoped for. He really wanted—needed—to see Shannon. She probably didn’t want to see him, though. He imagined Shannon viewed him as nothing but a painful reminder of his abandonment and the previous night’s horrors.

  The sheriff gave Matt a half-cocked grin. He cast his eyes about the room, exhaling deeply before speaking. “So, just what in hell happened last night?”

  Matt wondered the same thing. Just what in hell had happened? How did he find himself in such a surrealistic nightmare? Now, within the safe confines of a hospital bed, it seemed so distant, a half-remembered fever dream. Matt opened his mouth to speak but found no words. He lay there, gasping, before the tears started.

  “Uh, I’ll come back after you’re better rested, Mr. Strothers.” The sheriff hurried out the door.

  Matt cried himself to sleep.

  True to his word, the sheriff returned several hours later. Matt had taken advantage of the break to marshal his thoughts. Should he sugarcoat his involvement in the deaths of his family? No. Best to tell the truth. At least, as much as he understood.

  “How about the girl, Sheriff?” Matt asked. “Lindsay? Is she okay?”

  “I’m afraid she passed away last night, Mr. Strothers.” The sheriff shook his head. “It was touch and go for a while there, but she eventually lost the fight.”