Godland

by Stuart R. West

  Matt swallowed, his throat on fire. The death toll had risen again. “Is my daughter okay?”

  “Yep, nothing more than bruises, scratches, and cuts. And, of course, she’s shook up.” He paused and frowned. “I’m having a real hard time putting together what went on last night, Mr. Strothers.” He sat next to Matt, scribbling on a yellow legal tablet.

  “I’ll help as much as I can.” Matt told the sheriff everything he could remember from the time the Kansas City detective visited him until he killed his father. He told him how he went to Godwin to save his daughter and ended up killing four people and a dog. Matt surprised himself by how cavalierly he described his murders. He spoke of the bag of money that, to his knowledge, still sat in the farmhouse. He held back nothing, made no excuses. Didn’t even proclaim self-defense. No more running and hiding. He would accept the consequences.

  “Good Lord,” the sheriff said quietly. He stared at Matt waiting for some form of corroboration. Matt remained silent. “That’s some family you have, Mr. Strothers.”

  “Had,” responded Matt.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Had. That’s some family you had, Mr. Strothers.”

  “Yes, well…” The sheriff stood up and stretched. “At least you’ve been more helpful than your brother. He hasn’t said diddley squat.”

  “What?”

  “Your brother, Peter Brookes,” said the sheriff, consulting his legal pad.

  “He’s alive?”

  “Yep. Hard to believe, ain’t it?”

  Matt closed his eyes, stunned. “I have to see him.”

  Peter rolled over in bed, staring at his bandaged hand. The doctors told him they were unable to reattach the two fingers the damned pigs didn’t devour. If he’d gone to a real hospital, in a real city, he’d be plus two digits again.

  Shitty hospital run by rednecks and hicks can’t cure a common cold.

  Frankly, he shouldn’t be alive at all. The last thing he remembered was trying to drive his car out of the driveway. A vague recollection at best. When he came to in the hospital bed, the previous night seemed like a dream. Until he saw his bandaged hand. Everything looked quite a bit different now after wallowing in a pigsty at night, fighting his brother for his life.

  Upon awakening, his first visitor had been the county sheriff. Peter couldn’t think straight enough at the time to cover his tracks, so he kept his mouth shut. He needed time to concoct a story. Prison, simply, was not an option. He’d grown up in a veritable prison. From those ashes, he built a good life for himself, free to do whatever he pleased. He wouldn’t forego that freedom. At any cost. He just couldn’t live that way.

  And, really, he wondered, what could they pin on him? It probably depended on who survived the night. If no one lived, he could easily lie his way out of his involvement. He hadn’t killed anyone, after all. His best interests lay in saying nothing until he found out what happened to everyone else. He’d fake a PTSD scenario until the full story emerged.

  The more the sheriff probed, though, the more it became clear that Matt and his daughter were still alive. His chances of freedom seemed slim. Would Matt be open to coercion? They could easily blame this all on Edwin. Peter chuckled at his own naivety. Altar boy Mattie would never go for it.

  The fact he had more money than practically anyone worked in his favor. Gave him a comfort margin. Surely, he could buy a fleet of top-notch lawyers. Get off on a technicality perpetuated by the expensive shysters he owned. It’d be a walk in the park to rip the prosecuting attorneys in this shithole town apart. His best shot.

  Barring this, Peter decided he would take his own life. Suicide seemed preferable over an existence in prison.

  Peter let out a long sigh. How unfair that his milquetoast, weakling brother brought him down. Peter had conquered financial empires, bedded unattainable starlets, ate the finest foods, and purchased the most expensive automobiles available. And his mild, meek brother brought him down with a lucky swing of a scythe. The same brother he tried to help, teach, and even, protect. The brother to whom he once—a lifetime ago—professed his love.

  The sheriff appeared initially reluctant to let Matt visit Peter, but finally relented under the stipulation a police officer would be present. Matt told the sheriff it was just fine by him.

  Before Matt saw Peter, he called Jason. As expected, Jay had worked himself up into a frenzy. Matt pleaded with him to stay home, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Practically as soon as their conversation ended, Jay hit the road. Matt deliberately downplayed his role in the carnage. He didn’t want Jason thinking differently of him. He worried Jason might leave him once the entire story came out.

  Matt felt numb. He suffered no guilt. Maybe the full realization of what he did would strike him later. Or had he become immune to feeling anything after his ordeal?

  But Matt would do it all over again if it meant saving his daughter’s life.

  Goddamn straight.

  The dour nurse helped Matt get into a wheelchair. In the hallway, an armed police officer sat outside his room, tilted back in a chair. Up on the third floor, another officer stood by a closed door.

  “I’ll take it from here, nurse.” The police officer dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  “Fine,” she said. “But you ring me when he’s ready to go back to his room.”

  The officer nodded and held open the door, and the nurse wheeled Matt in. Peter lay in bed, facing the window.

  Matt took in a deep breath. “Peter.”

  Peter rolled over. His eyes were glassy as if he hadn’t slept in days, his face haggard. “Matt.”

  “I’m surprised you’re alive.”

  “I am, too.” He held up his bandaged hand. “But three fingers less alive.”

  “You deserve worse than that. What kind of fair world is it you survived and Lindsay died?”

  Peter chuckled, mirthless and world-weary. “Mattie…Matt, how can you still think it’s a ‘fair’ world?”

  “I guess I don’t. Not anymore. You pretty much saw to that, didn’t you?”

  Peter shot him a glare. “No, big brother. I’m not responsible for your beliefs. Never have been, never will be.”

  “Peter, I asked you this before, but you didn’t give me an answer. Why? Why’d you do it?”

  Peter fell silent before answering. “I did it for the thrill, Matt. The absolute thrill of the ultimate hunt. I wanted to experience the power of taking a human life.” He waved his intact hand. “But that all changed. I suppose if you need a reason, I don’t know. Chalk it up to fate, I guess.”

  “Fate,” repeated Matt.

  “Fate. How else can you explain why we all ended up there last night? One big, unhappy, dysfunctional family gathered one last time to hunt one another? Or do you still believe in God, Matt? Do you think God gathered us all together?”

  “I don’t know what I believe any more. Maybe it was God. Maybe God sent me there to do what I had to do—to protect my daughter.”

  “Oh, and what kind of God would do that, Matt? A kind and loving God? A God that would allow so much unhappiness and death?”

  They both sat quietly until the police officer cleared his throat, reigniting their uncomfortable reunion.

  “Peter? Do you feel any remorse? Any whatsoever?” asked Matt.

  “No, not really. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Matt said nothing. His brother’s words pierced like a knife to the heart. Yet, Matt felt great relief. Unlike his brother, he did feel remorse. Nearly human again.

  “How’s your daughter, Matt?”

  “I’ve been told she’s fine.”

  “That’s good. I really didn’t want her involved in this.”

  “But you did involve her, you bastard!” The officer jolted to attention, placing his hand on his holstered pistol. “You meant to kill her.”

  “Yes, well.” Peter furrowed his brow as if weighing the previous night’s events. “Tell me, Matt, what did happen to dear, old
father?”

  “I killed him.”

  “Good for you, Mattie. I’m actually surprised—and proud of you.” For a brief instant, Matt remembered the caring brother who had helped him years ago when his father abused him. The brother who once inspired him to better himself. But the moment faded like mist.

  “I’m not. I’m not proud of myself.”

  “You know he made me the way I am, don’t you?” asked Peter.

  “That’s bullshit, Peter. He was a horrible person, and he tainted everyone around him. But I’m not like you. I refuse to let him ruin me. You need to accept responsibility for your actions. You said you’re not responsible for my beliefs, so don’t throw blame on that old bastard either. We choose who we are.”

  “Oh, I’m beginning to think you’re more like me than you realize.”

  “We’re done here.” Matt wheeled around. “Officer, would you get the door for me, please?”

  The officer held the door open as Matt rolled away.

  “I am proud of you, Matt,” repeated Peter.

  Matt stopped at the door. “Rot in hell, Peter.”

  As Matt left, he heard his brother mutter under his breath, “Yeah, I suppose I will.”

  Shannon sat on the empty hospital bed, dreading the impending encounter. She thought she’d feel more satisfaction. It had been a long time coming, after all. Instead, anxiety washed over her. But no backing down now. She deserved answers. She had earned them. She suffered a childhood filled with self-doubt, loathing, and anger. Why?

  Her father needed to accept accountability for his actions. Yet, she felt physically and mentally drained, unsure if she was up to the challenge.

  Last night, after Shannon called 911, she had returned to the living room. Her father lay unmoving, next to Edwin’s dead body. Racing to his side, she shook him. She found a small pulse. Barely there.

  Unable to stay in the nightmarish house, she snagged the knife by Joshua’s body and waited outdoors. Freezing and miserable, yet free. Freedom tasted sweet.

  She checked her father every five minutes until the ambulances showed up.

  Flashing red lights brightened the driveway. She ran out to meet them, waving the knife above her head. A patrol officer jumped out of his car and yelled, “Drop it!” She released the knife and threw her arms around the officer’s neck, blubbering incoherently about dead people and murderers.

  The medics carted her father off on a stretcher. The police asked Shannon incessant questions, but she didn’t hear them, not really. At first, when she demanded to ride in the ambulance with her father, they nixed the idea. But after what she’d been through, it was a minor battle, nothing she couldn’t handle. On the way to the hospital, she’d held his hand, squeezing it, willing life into him.

  Shannon asked the paramedic about Lindsay. He assured her he knew nothing but would call. After a hushed radio conversation, he told Shannon she was still in surgery. But the look on the paramedic’s face told her a different story. She fell back, crying, calling out Lindsay’s name.

  At the hospital, Shannon stumbled out of the ambulance into the waiting arms of a nurse who ushered her into a wheelchair.

  “Dad!” She fought the nurse as she tried to restrain her.

  “Shhh, honey,” said the nurse, “we’re going to take good care of him.”

  Shannon had another half-memory of a police officer badgering her, but she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Attempting to patch together the night’s events proved an impossible task. The endless circus of police officers, nurses, and paramedics swirled into vague impressions, blending into a homogenous mess. Before Shannon finally gave in to the night, she remembered telling a policewoman about Gavin, the sweet boy in Barton, Kansas.

  When she woke up the next morning, her mother sat next to her. She hugged Shannon too tightly, applying loving pressure to her bruises and cuts. Her mother verified what Shannon already knew about Lindsey. Shannon fell into another crying fit, unable to stop. Her friend—the only person who’d made the last ten miserable years of her life better—was gone, forever.

  Shannon’s mother kept the police at bay. When they pushed harder, her mother demanded the doctor order the police away. They weren’t the only ones Shannon’s mother forbade her to see.

  “How’s my dad?”

  “He’s going to live if that’s what you mean.”

  “Mom, I know you’re not going to like this—”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to him. To Dad.”

  Shannon’s mother ran her fingers over the bed’s gate, averting her gaze.

  “I just want to get some answers, Mom. Some closure—”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry but I have to.” Shannon could be a bulldog as well. She wasn’t backing down.

  Her mother’s eyes moistened. “I suppose there’s no stopping you.”

  “No.”

  “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. You might not like what you hear.”

  Her mother’s words filled her with an unexpected dread, nearly as frightening as the night before.

  “Fine.” Bring it, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

  “You have another visitor, Mr. Strothers,” said the nurse. Matt knew Jason couldn’t have traveled that fast.

  Upon rolling into his room, he saw Shannon sitting on his bed, hands folded in her lap.

  “Dad?” She wore fresh clothing, but her glasses were still missing. Bandages lined her arms and scrapes blemished her face.

  Matt extended his arms toward her. She pulled away.

  “You know how happy I am to see you?” Matt’s voice cracked, another welcome thawing of his emotions. “I would’ve thought you’d be back in Kansas City by now.”

  “Mom didn’t want me to see you, but…it’s like you said last night. I have unfinished business.”

  Matt didn’t remember saying it at first. Then it hit him. When he killed Edwin. “Okay. Listen, Shannon—”

  “What?”

  “I’m truly sorry about your friend, Lindsay.” Again, Matt reached out for her.

  She knocked his hands away with a sweep of her arm. “Lindsay,” she sobbed, rocking herself. Matt watched, not knowing what to do.

  “Why did you abandon me, Dad?” she asked quietly.

  “I…I didn’t abandon you, Shannon—”

  “Yes, you did. You totally did.” She shook her fists at him. “I was eight years old. Eight years old! For ten years, I didn’t hear a word from you.” Tears travelled down her scratched cheeks. “Mom said you didn’t want me anymore.”

  “That’s not true, Shannon.” But Matt knew—even if not by choice—he had abandoned her. He didn’t fight to keep her in his life. “I’ve always wanted you in my life. I’ve never stopped caring about you—”

  “Helluva’ funny way of showing it.”

  “Shannon, I was weak. I admit that. I had some…emotional issues…some problems. Your mother got a restraining order against me to stop me from seeing you. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Bullshit. You always have choices. You need to accept responsibility.”

  Startled by the similarity to the conversation he’d just had with Peter, Matt knew she was right. Absolutely right.

  “I agree, Shannon. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me. I should’ve fought tooth and nail to see you. It’s just that, at the time—” Matt stopped himself before he could hide behind another excuse. “I’m sorry.”

  “Was it me? Was it something I did? Did you…not love me?” The words crushed Matt. His daughter—so strong, so brave last night—retreated into herself.

  “No. Of course not.” He wheeled himself closer. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand to her shoulder. This time she didn’t pull away. Crying, she hid her face in her hands. “I’ve always loved you, Shannon. Always will. My biggest regret is that I missed out on those ten years of your life.”

  “I’ve always wondered if it was me.”

 
“Of course it wasn’t you.” Matt unleashed the tears he held back. He pulled her close into an embrace. “I love you…always.”

  “Is it true?” She pushed him away to look into his eyes. “Did you leave us for another woman?”

  Matt’s eyes widened even while resisting a chuckle. Probably not the best response. “Um, no, not exactly. No, I didn’t leave your mother…well…for anyone.” Shannon eyed him suspiciously. Obviously, Cheryl never told their daughter he was gay. Cheryl must have viewed the shame in having a gay husband far worse than their daughter blaming herself for their destroyed marriage.

  “Your mother and I were unhappy together. You must have seen it when you were younger.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you reached eighteen, I was going to try and establish a relationship with you again. When I could. I just never thought it would’ve happened like it did last night.”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t an ideal father-daughter reunion.” To Matt’s surprise, Shannon flashed a heart-melting smile.

  “No, it wasn’t.” They shared a cathartic laugh.

  “I do truly, truly apologize, Shannon. It was wrong. I know I can’t make it up to you, but can we start over? Can we try?”

  Shannon sat quietly.

  “Give me one more chance. Please. I love you.”

  “Okay.” She buried her face in her father’s chest. “Okay.”

  About the Author

  After working as a graphic and production artist for the last twenty-three years, the company for which I labored shuttered its doors in July of 2010, finally allowing me the time and mental energy to tackle something that I’m passionate about.

  Godland is my second adult horror thriller, following Neighborhood Watch. I’m also the author of four YA paranormal thrillers, the Tex, the Witch Boy series, and a spin-off, Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl.

  I’m married to a professor of pharmacy (who greatly appreciates that I now prepare dinner for her) and have a twenty-one year old daughter, who hasn’t yet decided what to do with her life. But that’s okay…it took me twenty-five years or longer.