by Logan Fox
“What are you on?” I murmur, resisting the urge to thumb back his eyelids.
“You weren’t there,” he says, hazel eyes wide enough that now, I don’t even need to pull back his eyelids.
His pupils aren’t dilated or constricted.
He’s not on anything, except pure adrenalin.
“You didn’t see what that demonic fucker did to her.”
“I don’t—” I begin, but he cuts me off with a choking sound.
“He strung her up like Jesus, but the wrong way around.” Kane’s eyes gleam; he’s close to tears. “I got there just after, when he still had a goddamn semi.” Spittle touches my skin, but I’m too entranced by Kane’s rage to wipe it off. “Then you know what that fucking cocksucker did?” Kane’s voice pitches high. “He said I could have a go. ‘Cos he was done with her.” Kane’s voice breaks.
“That was Ziggy. What the fuck do you think he’s gonna do to Clover?”
My skin’s prickling hot and cold as a wave of panic washes through me.
“You never told me that,” I whisper furiously, bile souring my throat. “You never fucking told me that!”
“Yeah?” Kane yells back. “Didn’t think you’d ever want to give him your fucking girlfriend.”
We stare at each other, panting as if we’re halfway through a marathon.
A robin calls out, so shrill it tears me from the moment like a clawed monster.
I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, and spin to face the house.
It’s too quiet.
Why the fuck is it so quiet?
“Clover,” I murmur.
Kane grabs me, but I twist out of his grip and bolt inside the house. As soon as I cross the threshold, I know she’s not inside. But my dumb-fuck of a body is on auto-pilot; I race upstairs, compelled to fling open every door. If my chest weren’t so tight, I would have screamed out her name.
I thump down the stairs, Kane appearing at the front door as I rush past and veer to the powder room. The door rebounds when I shove it open.
“Where is she?” Kane asks.
I can barely breathe. I slice a hand at him to shut him the fuck up, and sprint for the kitchen.
The back door’s standing wide open.
My heart’s leading the charge. It pounds against my breastbone, spurring me through the trees like a race-horse nose-to-nose with another. But Kane isn’t beside me; I hear him crashing through the forest behind me, just as noisy as I am.
I don’t have to search for traces of her. I see her path clearly and just let myself follow instinctively.
Obey me.
I laugh, cough, stagger. How she’s turned the tables, my beautiful Clover. Still prey, but now the hunter is scrambling to catch up.
I veer left at a swathe of bruised leaves. She was moving fast, but why the rush?
Follow me.
“Hunter!”
I ignore Kane; he has fuck all to offer me right now unless he can make me move faster through this goddamn forest.
“Hunter!”
His voice dwindles.
Air is fire, my throat a flaking-dry tunnel.
I spot a flash of red and instinctively know it’s Clover’s hair.
My sprinting slows to a heavy jog.
I’m on my knees, hands in the dirt; a wild, panting animal.
Sweat drips from my face and splashes on Clover’s forehead.
“No.”
Where is that voice coming from?
I scoop my hands under Clover’s body, lift, almost crumble. My legs are too weak after the sprint; rubber, and string.
“No, no, no.”
Is it Kane? Has he caught up? I hope so because I’m not strong enough to lift Clover and his goddamn baby from the mossy soil.
“No!” The shriek scorches my throat, and I realize it was me all along. I’m a whimpering, hysterical excuse for a man bemoaning his fate while Clover’s life washes away like a river in flood season.
Thuds. Twigs cracking.
Kane appears, breathing heavily.
“Please,” I whisper, scooping Clover’s shoulders from the ground. I look up at him, and it takes everything I have not to drop her again.
Kane’s face is bone-white. There’s a streak of blood on his cheek as if a branch lashed at him, and it’s barbarically vivid in comparison.
He crouches, grits his teeth, and grabs Clover’s hips. Then he rips her from me, eyes flashing murder before he turns and hurries back to the house.
I stay on my knees, falling forward until my fingers burrow into the soft, mossy soil, and release a wrenching sob.
I burst through the back door and into the kitchen. Clover’s on the counter, one arm dangling from the granite, the other draped over her belly.
Holding it.
My heart stutters in my chest as I rush forward and grab her hand. “Clover. Clover!”
But she’s cold as the granite beneath her. That pose was pure happenstance.
She’s blue-lipped. Motionless.
Dead.
I stagger and turn to the cause; Kane grimaces at me as his lips move furiously. He glares, shoves me again. This time, my hip strikes the granite countertop, and the jolt of pain brings me back to the here and now.
Abruptly, the white noise in my head subsides.
“—get your fucking head out of your ass!” Kane yells.
“Okay,” I say.
Kane closes his mouth, grits his teeth. “Do you have it?”
Have what?
“Have what?” I ask a second later, the dissonance in my mind making me woozy.
“That fucking shot. The one they give junkies. For OD’ing!” Each subsequent statement is louder and harsher than the first.
He’s a mad man — his rage barely contained in his thumping veins.
“Naloxone,” I hear myself say.
Kane gapes at me. “Yes, you fucking—Where is it?”
I drag my fingers down my face. I can’t feel anything, can’t think. I’m hyperventilating. But I manage — or, at least, a part of me manages — to murmur, “Lab. Downstairs. Seven-nine-nine-eight-four.”
“Seven-nine-nine-eight-four,” Kane mutters, pivoting on his heel. “Seven-nine-nine…” His voice fades.
Clover’s hand is in mine. Clammy, cold. I rub it hard with my thumb, willing warmth back into it.
It’s too late, Kane. She’s already gone.
“How much did she take?” comes Kane’s voice.
Where did she get it from?
“I killed her.”
“Move,” Kane snaps. I stumble when he shoves me out of the way.
He stabs a syringe into Clover’s chest. I flinch, cover my ice-cold face with even colder hands. Then I’m peeking through my fingers like a ten-year-old trying to watch a scary movie.
Kane stares at Clover. I stare at Clover. Clover stares at nothing because she’s dead.
She’s fucking dead.
“Fuck.” Kane rips a hand through his hair. “Fuck!” He pounds the granite countertop and spins to face me. “Hunter. Hunter!”
“Yeah.” I take my hands away. “Yeah.”
Kane’s mouth is a grim line. There’s blood rimming it as if he bit the inside of his mouth. His eyes are luminous with the threat of tears that never spill.
When he speaks, it’s through an angry sob. “How do we get my fucking baby out of her?”
My hands are shaking so much, I can barely hold the scalpel straight. Kane’s staring at me so intently, it’s as if he’s pushing the blade into Clover’s stomach with the power of his mind.
A sullen red line appears.
With no beating heart to hurry along her blood, it oozes from the gash like thick soup sliding off a spoon.
I make a strangled sound, doing my best not to look toward Clover’s shrouded face. Kane put a dish towel over her head, but I keep thinking she’s staring at me with that mischievous look she always gets before she’s about to say something snarky.
You pl
aying pretend again, Hunter? You know you’re not a real doctor, right? You can’t like, open people up and pull their babies out and shit.
My face is wet; sweat or tears, I don’t know. My mouth tastes of salt and bile, a taste that refuses to wash out no matter how often I force a swallow.
I’m about to look away when the blood oozing from Clover…pumps. That’s the only way I can describe it.
The baby. It’s still alive.
But then something else catches my eye. If I hadn’t been holding my breath, trying to keep my hands as steady as possible, I would have missed it.
But I don’t.
I see a flutter.
The neckline of Clover’s baggy t-shirt. It quivers ever so slightly.
She’s alive.
“She’s alive!” I drop the scalpel on her belly, immediately pressing my fingers to the side of her neck. I leave bloody wet fingerprints in my wake, but I couldn’t give a fuck.
I wait, breath burning deep in my lungs.
And wait.
And wait.
“She’s not—” comes Kane’s voice.
And then that barely distinguishable flutter.
“Heart’s beating. Barely, but it’s fucking beating.” I spin to Kane, a victorious smile stretching my dry lips.
Kane’s eyes move past me, stick.
“Father will be so happy to hear that,” a voice behind me says. “He might even let you two fuckers live, who knows?”
My head swivels on its own. I blink, then again.
There’s a moment’s relief when I see Colby standing in my living room, a cigarette in one hand and a machete in the other.
I laugh, slap my hands together, and laugh again. It’s a dream. This is all a fucked up dream. Or a nightmare, I guess, but fuck, at least—
Sam walks in behind Colby, along with a man I recognize but whose name I can’t remember.
My face falls when Kane touches my arm. “They were closer than the hospital,” he says in a hollow voice. “I had to, Hunter.”
Sam and his friend move me aside almost gently, throw a blanket over Clover’s body, and wrap her like a burrito.
I laugh at the reference, and a slap spins my head to the side.
“You gone hysterical on me, boy?” Colby barks. He’s aged drastically — his buzz cut more silver than brown, and deep crow’s feet cut into the corners of his eyes.
I turn to watch Father’s two men take Clover out my front door, to a van idling in wait.
It’s as white as her shroud. Except…there’s a chrysanthemum of blood slowly blooming right by her fat belly. I watch it spread its petals before the van’s door slam shut behind her.
“Father said we could be there,” I hear Kane say. “Hunter arranged it—”
“Girl’s dead. Baby probably too,” Colby snaps, shoving Kane back and pointing the machete at him. “We’re just taking out the trash.”
The world tilts. Ice touches my cheek and spreads. I watch a lopsided Kane walk toward me against the wall. He crouches, grabs my chin, and wrenches my face up from the cold kitchen tiles.
“I hope you burn in hell, you motherfucker,” he growls.
The last thing I see is his fist.
Part Four
Termination
“A lie is sweet in the beginning, and bitter in the end. Truth is bitter in the beginning, but sweet in the end.”
Osho
Chapter Forty-Two
Hunter
My throbbing head drives open my eyes and I cringe as agony sweeps through my skull, settling over my body like a shroud.
White shroud.
Red Chrysanthemum.
I push up, staggering before I can catch myself against the wall. I feel sick to my stomach but horribly empty at the same time, as if I’ve lost all my blood to an insidious vampire.
“Clover?”
No one answers.
Did I drink too much? Weed and scotch is never a good combination, especially if you start off with a few shots first.
“Clover!”
I stop walking aimlessly to stare down between my feet.
There’s a drop of blood on the carpet.
I’m on my knees, prodding that dried scarlet circle. A sob rips through me. My forehead touches the carpet. There’s a hint of iron in the air.
I thump the carpet with a fist and topple over onto my side. I could die right here, and it would be nothing less than I deserved.
“Get up.” Sharp pain lances into me. I gasp as I wake, a hand immediately grasping at my side. I stare blearily up at a figure that’s nothing more than a smudge against the world. “I said, get up!”
I catch the foot this time, yank it. My eyes focus reluctantly on a staggering Kane. He recovers instantly, teeth flashing white as he points a revolver at my forehead.
“Easy,” I mumble, lifting my hands.
“Up!”
Fuck, but my head hurts. I squint up at him, grimace, and slowly get my legs under me.
“What—?”
“No, Hunter,” Kane whispers furiously. “This time you’ll sit, and you’ll fucking listen. Not a goddamn word, or I’ll splatter your brains all over your fancy fucking carpet. Got it?”
I can barely breathe, never mind speak, but when he snaps out, “Got it?” I let out a reflexive, “Yes!”
He relaxes a single degree and waves the gun to the armchair. “Move.”
My mind scrambles for some kind of explanation. The first thing to surface is Clover. That incriminating flower blooming on her shroud.
Jesus fucking Christ.
A wave of despair rocks me so hard, my head sags into my hands. I manage a single sob before a backhand sends white lights sparking across my vision. I choke, half gasping and half sobbing, as I stare up at Kane.
Dead eyes stare back at me. “You disgust me, you pathetic fuck,” Kane mutters. “Look at you, sobbing like a fucking pansy.” He grits his teeth. “I should just do the world a favor and put a bullet through your sick head.”
“Then do it,” I manage, but my voice is far from the strength I want it to be. “Just fucking do it. What’s the fucking point, anyway? There’s no reason for me to—”
This time, he pistol whips me. The world swims in agony and misery, and I barely claw myself to the surface. Kane’s arm is up, ready for another round of blunt force trauma.
I surge up from the armchair and ram him.
The coffee table shatters under Kane’s body. Glass cuts my arms and legs as we fall through the frame. Kane’s growling like an animal, the pistol trapped between our hands.
I kick at the frame, and it scrapes my scalp before flipping away.
I pull back for a punch but stop.
There’s blood under Kane.
A lot of blood.
I scramble up and drag him up after me. He winces, staggers, and collapses on the couch.
“Kane. Kane!”
I turn him onto his side. A shard of glass sits embedded in his back. From the angle, it might be buried an inch or more deep.
“Fuck.” I push away from the couch, struggling to keep my feet under me as I hurry to my basement lab. I struggle with the door, shaking, bloodied fingers pressing the wrong digits so many times I taste blood in my mouth from how I’m chewing the inside of my cheek. I snatch medical supplies and run up to the ground floor.
Kane’s trying to ease out of his shirt, but from the paleness of his face, he’s hurting himself more than anything else.
“Leave it,” I snap.
I brought scissors and use it to cut away the fabric. Besides Kane’s ragged breath and the sound of my utensils, there’s utter silence between us as I remove the piece of glass slicing into him, and stitch him up again.
I bandage him, and he leans away from me as if he can’t stand the fact that I’m touching him. I stare at him for a second, taking in his erratic gaze, white lips, and tightly clenched jaw.
Upstairs, I roll us a joint with MJ’s strain — it’s one of
the strains I have with the highest CBD to THC ratio which makes it perfect for a pain reliever.
I hand it to him, and he stares at the joint as if it’s a fucking poisoned apple.
“For the pain.”
He snatches it away and winces when he tries to reach into his jeans for a lighter. I flick on the one I have and cup my hands so he can light it.
We smoke in silence, but as the joint gets shorter, stiffness leaves both of our bodies. My rage melts away and is replaced with deep resignation. I stare at the last half-inch of the joint and wonder why it doesn’t smell like burning flesh today.
“He’s done.”
I turn to Kane, frowning. He’s staring at something I can’t see, face stoic. The meaning of his words creeps up to me. I sit forward, finish the joint, and crush it out on the carpet. Why not? It’s ruined anyway — Kane’s blood will leave a stain, and some of the glass sliced into the fibers.
“How are we—?”
“The old-fashioned way,” Kane mutters. “Fire and fucking brimstone.”
I stare at him, my mind doing slow cartwheels as I try to process his words. “A…bomb?”
He shrugs. “I’d drop a fucking nuke on the place, but I guess that’ll do.”
“What about everyone else? His workers, his followers, his—”
“They’re all as evil as he is,” Kane spits out, eyes pinning me. “It’s time we let some holy fire onto that land and raze it to the fucking ground.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Clover
A touch to my hand rouses me from deep, blissful oblivion. Light burns my eyes, and I hurriedly squeeze them closed again. There’s pressure on my body in various places and a deep wrenching sensation.
I should have been in pain, but I’m disconnected right now.
Please leave a message after the tone.
Stroke.
Stroke.
Stroke.
Something touches my lips, my throat, a breast.
My eyes flutter open, serving me an image of a bright white roof. I let my head roll to the side. More white, but fabric this time.
