by J. Thorn
"I'm gonna ask you one more time, Doc, and then I reckon I'm gonna have to start cutting itty-bitty pieces of you off until you tell what needs to be told."
Wellman backed away, toward the side of the house opposite the disabled Volkswagen where the darkness was heaviest. From there he had all of them in his sights. He stopped, swallowed. "She was here for a time. I didn't know what had happened to her. The man who brought her here—"
"Lowell," Papa told him, and Wellman's shoulders dropped a notch, the light in his eyes dimming. "We took his head as a souvenir. Wanna see it?"
Wellman paled, and shook his head. "No...I don't. I—"
"Clock's tickin'," Papa said.
"They brought her here, but I didn't know she was...yours. I thought she'd been in an accident or something. Jack didn't know nothing either. I did what I could for her, but she was too badly off...needed more help than I could give, so..."
Papa closed the distance between them. "So?"
The old man seemed rooted to the spot with fear. "So I sent her on her way."
Papa smiled. It was a predatory look and though Luke wasn't sure if the doctor knew it, it was also the telltale sign that the man's time had just run out. "With Lowell's 'lil nigger pup, right?"
Wellman said nothing.
Aaron let loose a frustrated sigh and stepped out into the yard but not before leaning back and calling out to the twins that it was time to go.
This was where it was all going to end, Luke realized. They had wasted too much time at home, with Momma's little speech, then Papa's display with the severed head for the boys' amusement, then again at the farmer's house, fucking around with the animals when he could have been in the truck, trying to make it here before the Lowell kid took off with the girl. If he hadn't known any better, Luke might have thought Papa had delayed on purpose, might have come to the conclusion that his father didn't give a rat's ass about the girl and had done all this simply to get rid of the family's one remaining rotten egg. To dispose of the kid he didn't love. After all, why punish Luke for a mistake Matt had made? None of this would have happened if that simple-minded fool hadn't fallen for the girl's tricks.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt a terrible, repulsive affinity for the people they had hunted and killed over the years. For the first time in his life, he felt the sensation of the trap closing in on him, the jagged teeth descending to rend his flesh and snap the bone.
He was no longer kin.
He was prey.
His father's voice jarred him from his thoughts. "Aaron."
"Pa?"
"Scalp him."
For one dazzlingly horrific moment, Luke thought his father meant him, that the execution of the mutinous plan had already begun, but then he saw the doctor back away as Aaron moved in on him, knife held with the point aimed skyward, and he let out a small inaudible sigh of relief.
"Make it fast, boy. We've got some catchin' up to do." Papa turned and headed for the truck, apparently uninterested in the torture that was about to be visited upon the old doctor.
He had one hand on the door when Aaron said, "Uh, Pa..."
Luke was surprised to see that all trace of fear had vanished from the old man's face, as if it had simply been a well-rehearsed act to fool them into assuming him an easy target. But as it turned out, they were the targets now, for in the old man's trembling hand was a gun, the muzzle looking as cold as the crooked grin on the face of the man aiming it at Aaron's face.
-11-
Wellman had never been so afraid. His bladder felt explosively full, the valve responsible for keeping his urine inside jerking spasmodically every few seconds, threatening to release the dam if he didn't remove the hand of terror that kept squeezing it. His knee ached fiercely from its collision with the boy's cheek. But his concerns were not on his bodily functions at that moment. His perspective had whittled itself down until it was snugly focused on the tableau contained within the field of the Merrill patriarch's headlights.
They had destroyed his car, but that didn't matter. He hadn't entertained any notions of fleeing. In fact, though they didn't yet know it, in disabling the old Bug they'd inadvertently aided him in his cause.
The boy with the knife—Aaron—didn't move, but there was no fear on his face, only hatred, dark eyes ablaze with contempt.
"You better put that down now," he said, tilting his head slightly to spit.
Wellman waved the gun. "Back up."
The boy ignored him and looked to his father, who still stood by the truck smiling as if eagerly awaiting the punch line of a joke, and asked, "What're we gonna do, Pa?"
"Same's we always do," the man said.
The other boy, the one who had crippled the Volkswagen and whose face Wellman had caught with his knee, stared at him. Lurking beneath the grime and sweat and practiced callousness, the doctor thought he detected, not the anger he'd expected, but embarrassment, and perhaps the slightest trace of doubt.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked the boy now, the gun still trained on Aaron. "Why do you want to hurt folks who've never done anything to you?"
Luke, who seemed startled to be addressed directly, opened his mouth as if to respond then shut it just as quickly and frowned, his eyes moving from Wellman to the ground, then up again to his father, who answered for him.
"Because some people're born to die, Doc," he said and at last started to move. Wellman felt a surge of panic, his gaze flitting from the glaring Aaron to his father, uncertain now which one of them represented the bigger threat.
"You s-stay where you are," he stammered.
Papa-in-Gray kept coming, his strange dusty frock-like coat brushing his heels and kicking up dust.
"You think you was born to die, Doc?"
Breathing hard, Wellman slowly shook his head. "Nobody's born just to die."
Papa smiled. He was now less than ten feet away, his narrowed eyes catching the golden glow from the open doorway, making them gleam with odd light beneath the wide brim of his hat. "You really believe that?"
"Yes."
Finally, Papa stopped moving, just outside the reach of the truck's headlights, but he was close enough now that if Wellman stretched out a hand, he could have brushed the man's chest.
"You think me and my boys was born to die?"
Wellman considered this, but knew he couldn't give the response that immediately suggested itself. Goddamn right. All you rotten bastards deserve to die for what you've done. Instead he shook his head. "No. I guess you don't."
"Then tell me somethin'," Papa asked, chin raised slightly in the manner of a shortsighted man appraising a gem. "If'n you really believe what you're sayin'...and with you bein' a man respects life and all...tell me why we should be afraid of you when you're holdin' a gun you ain't gonna use?"
Wellman started to speak, to tell the man to back the hell up and enough with his goddamn talk, but the words died in his throat when he saw Papa's grin widen at something slightly to the right, something in the dark over the doctor's shoulder. Too late Wellman turned and saw one of the twins standing behind him, stepping forth from where he'd been concealed by the dense shadows at the side of the house. He had time only to see the impossible mask of utter loathing on the begrimed face and the dull shine on the blade in his hand before the child lunged forward and buried the knife deep into Wellman's thigh.
Pain exploded in his leg. The blade made a horrible sucking sound as the child jerked it free. Blood spurted outward, painting the boy's face, and Wellman staggered, his free hand clamping down on the wound. His back hit the wall of the house and he struggled to remain standing even as waves of agony washed over him. The blood continued to fount, jetting from between his fingers, and "oh," was all he could say as the strength started to leave him. Still, he kept the gun in his hand, the sweat beneath his finger on the trigger guard cold, but even though the temptation to turn that weapon on himself and end this now was greater than ever, he knew there was no need. Despite the unbearable pain, which felt
to him as if someone had ripped wide the wound and were tugging on the nerves and muscles in his leg, he was aware of what had been done to him, and what he still needed to do before he bled to death. He willed himself to raise the gun, even as he slid down the wall. The figures in the yard had gathered around him, one of them laughing. Standing with the headlights behind them, they looked like devils come from Hell itself.
So much blood, Wellman thought, as he watched it continue to spurt from between his fingers in time with the beating of his heart. Little bastard got the femoral artery, most likely. Gives me about five minutes, if I'm lucky. But he had been given no reason thus far to think himself lucky, and so he shook his head to clear it of the clouds that were already starting to gather behind his eyes, and summoned every ounce of strength he had left to keep his head from nodding forward and pitching him into a darkness from which he was not likely to return.
"You got 'im good Isaac," Papa said, though he didn't sound entirely pleased. "But this ain't how I wanted it."
Wellman wasn't sure what that meant. Had they been bluffing? Had they meant to just scare him into telling them what they wanted to know, or to warn him as they had Jack Lowell all those years ago when he'd stuck his nose in where it wasn't wanted? No, there was no bluff here. Perhaps if he hadn't seen the faces of those boys, the cold malevolence in their eyes, he could have told himself that this had all just been some kind of terrible mistake, a rash move perhaps from a boy too young, or too simple, to know what he was doing. But he had seen them, had felt the threat saturating the air the moment they'd arrived. These people had come to kill him, just as they had butchered those poor kids and God only knew how many before them, just as they would murder Claire if he told them where she was.
"You can end this," he said weakly, his gaze directed at the tallest shadow now dropping to a crouch before him. "Hit the road, clear out of town and never look back. You've got time." He let out a long low breath. Part of him seemed to escape with it. The pain was maddening, a raging itch deep inside his leg he would have to tear himself asunder to reach. His heart ached as it strained to compensate for the amount of blood he was losing. He could smell himself in the air, the urine and feces as his bodily functions gradually started to relax and void themselves, giving up before the rest of him. He could smell them too, their foul breath, the old sweat, the dirt and filth. These were not the scents he imagined would herald his death, but on some level he supposed it was apt. Abby's death had been no more elegant.
"Ain't about time, Doc," said Papa-in-Gray.
"Then what is it about?"
They were closer now, or maybe that was just his own failing vision playing tricks on him, but the light penetrating their semi-circle seemed thinner, as did the air allowed to infiltrate the group. It was getting harder to breathe.
"We're gonna get that bitch girl, then come back," Pa continued. "And we're gonna make it look like you kilt yourself, though that leg wound won't help us none."
One of the smaller shadows swallowed audibly and looked away.
"Then we're gonna put your body right back in that house'a yours, get you all comfortable, maybe with that pretty picture of your wife. Make it look all peaceful."
Wellman was fading fast, the ground beneath him warmed by his own life's blood, the flesh above it growing steadily colder.
"Why's he smilin'?" one of the boys asked.
"I expect he's acceptin' his fate."
Get this one last thing done, Wellman told himself, but his own thoughts sounded distant, a voice heard calling from beyond the hills. Then: "One last...thing," he said aloud. It was not until he drew in a sudden breath and forced his eyes wide that he realized they'd been shut. His vision wavered, the figures around him blurry and indistinct as if seen through billowing sheets of plastic. He clenched his teeth, and willed his hand to bring the gun up. Miraculously, for it felt as if it existed independently of him, it obeyed, though the gun seemed to have increased in weight and size.
"Well lookit that," Pa said, and chuckled.
"Best step back, Pa."
The man's tone darkened. "And you best watch who you're advisin', Aaron."
Wellman gasped as a bolt of pain shot through him. For a moment he thought he'd been stabbed again, but realized as it ebbed away that it was merely an involuntary spasm, his body protesting the systematic shutdown of its component parts.
Papa-In-Gray's face was mere inches from his own.
Wellman straightened his arm and aimed the gun point blank at the man's right eye.
Knives found his throat. The twins, he suspected, on either side of him, their hands small as they brushed his chin.
"Easy boys. He ain't shootin' nobody."
"But Pa—"
"Get in the truck."
Wellman drew back the hammer. The ratcheting click sounded impossibly loud. The only sound in the world. The boys tensed.
"You heard me, now get movin' dammit," Papa commanded.
Wellman felt their reluctance as they moved away, heard their footsteps crunching gravel, the truck doors opening and closing again. Then it was just silence, one shadow, and the gun.
"You change your mind, old man?" Papa asked. "Fixin' to go out a hero?"
Wellman's eyes were starting to close, the shades on his evening coming down to usher in endless night. He jerked himself back to consciousness and muttered a curse.
"Go ahead," Pa told him, leaning in so the gun was pressed beneath his eye. "Pull the trigger. God might forgive you for doin' what you thought was right while the pain had you addled. And I ain't scared none. You might say I'm awful curious about what's waitin' for me up there."
"Let her go. Please. She never hurt you."
"She kilt my boy's what she did to me."
"She was... Just...let her go. She's suffered enough."
"Only reason you gotta stake in this is 'cuz you got in the way, ol' man. What happens to her ain't none of your concern. Shouldn't've wasted your time on her."
"You'll burn in Hell," Wellman whispered, his breath whistling from his mouth. Shuddering, he put as much pressure on the gun as he could muster, digging it into the flesh beneath the other man's eye. "You'll burn for what you've done. And someday... someone will stop you."
"Oh?"
"People like you..." He grunted as another bolt of pain shot through him. "Monsters like you...don't last long. Someone will put an end to this."
Pa sounded as if he was smiling, but his face was nothing but darkness. "But not you?"
"No." Wellman drew a breath he was afraid would be his last. He was wracked with pain, every muscle contracting, making it an effort to breathe, to think, to see..."No," he said. "Not me."
With the last of his strength, he swung his hand to the left and pulled the trigger. Pa jerked back with a grunt, one hand clamped over his ear as he spun away. The gun kicked in the doctor's hand, sending a shock of pain up his arm and he almost dropped it. But he brought the weapon up one last time, tightened his quivering grip, and pulled the trigger again, and again, even after he could no longer see, and the sound of the bullets leaving the gun was a distant echo.
*
The truck bucked and dropped low on the right side, the headlights tilting, sliding away from their father and the dying doctor before coming to a halt at a crooked angle. The windshield shattered, scattering glass, and from the back seat Joshua gasped as a bullet sheared off a piece of his right ear and punched a small hole in the rear window, starring but not breaking it.
"That son of a bitch," Aaron roared, jerking on the door handle. "He got the goddamn tire." Then he was out and running, door swinging wide, the knife held at his side in a fist so white it could have been sculpted from limestone.
"You all right?" Luke asked quietly, his eyes on the mirror and his younger brother's pained expression.
Joshua nodded, one hand cupping his bloody ear.
Isaac shoved the newly vacated driver seat forward and filed out with Joshua at his heels. They
slammed the door hard behind them as if they had sensed Luke wasn't going to follow.
They were right.
Instead he sat still, and watched, absently picking fragments of glass from his hair and brushing them from his clothes. The cuts on his face stung where the shrapnel from the windshield had punctured the skin, but he was only barely aware of them. The tender area on his left cheek hurt more, even though the pain was no more potent than the nicks made by the glass. Shame made his face fill with blood and throb with the impotency of anger. He should have lashed back at the old man, snapped his bones and torn his flesh. There had been time. But he had just stood there in shock, overwhelmed by the dawning of what this new development would mean to his family.
The old man caught Luke a good one, he imagined them muttering to each other as they grinned up at their father, who would shake his head in disappointment. Should've seen that comin' a mile away. Boy's gettin' slower'n a dog in the summertime. And y'all know what needs to be done when a dog ain't no good no more don'tcha?
Panic lodged in his throat at the image of them turning as one to look at him wherever he stood waiting for their verdict.
We do, Pa.
Doubt delayed him, one clammy hand slippery against the door handle. These people were all he had. They were all he knew, and maybe at the back of it all he was getting too far ahead of himself. There was no doubt that Pa had no time for him, but would he go so far as to end his life? Over this?
Out in the yard, Pa was rising. Like Joshua, who stood by his side, nudging the doctor with his foot, he had one hand over his ear. Luke had seen the doctor move the gun away from his father's face and pull the trigger, shooting out the tire, and while Aaron had cursed and ducked, Luke had stayed where he was, watching until the moment the windshield exploded, hoping against hope that one of those bullets would tear through his brain, curing it of confusion and fear once and for all, or that the doctor would save at least one round for Papa.
It was a terrible thought and one he couldn't help but feel guilty for, and yet up until Pa had risen just a moment ago, proving he was still alive, Luke had prayed the man was dead and out of their lives forever. Now he watched as Aaron plucked the gun from the doctor's hand and checked the chamber. "Ain't got but one bullet left," he told their father.
