by catt dahman
“Cap Chuck,” Newman said, “and doo mommie make me a double vet.” He planned to rape a woman and then kill her. The slang referred to that.
David Gaither shrugged, “Free fire zone when we hit it.” He raised his M-60. “Most Ricky tick. Go, go.”
The six men hit the hovels and tents fast, yanking the women and children out, killing the boys straight out. No young men or boys over sixteen or thereabouts were in the huts. Women and girls, huddled together in make-shift hovels that leaked rain water, pleaded or muttered angrily, and the soldiers knew a few words of what was uttered, enough to gather a meaning from each that pertained to nasty things to do to themselves or one another, suggestions that they die viciously or catch various terrible diseases and suffer until parts of their bodies rotted away.
None of the six men cared what the females said. Since the last two suggestions were likely to happen.
When they were finished killing the old males, five of the six men grabbed women or young girls, depending on their individual desires.
“Newman, come on; finish them,” David Gaither said.
Newman enjoyed cutting the women and making them scream as he molested them. He had four victims. With regret, he stabbed each in the heart and left all lying in the water. It seemed such a waste to kill them after only a little bit of time spent enjoying them. They were the enemy and given the chance would remove his testicles with a dull, rusty knife while laughing loudly; their men were not good souls either. During war, people behaved badly.
Newman only did what men during wars had done for thousands of years: taken the women and girls and abused them as a slap in their men’s faces. It was a way to demoralize the other side as well as to give the winning side a sexual and stress outlet. Newman hated women.
“Do it,” Gaither told Hatter. It was time to burn and destroy the poor hovels and ruin the bodies further. David distrusted females and thought of them as troublemakers and wanton sluts. He disliked them but didn’t quite hate them.
Almost.
The other men watched expectantly. Hatter threw the grenades, two of them, to cover their crimes. The men surveyed the area, the stinking mud, shapeless boards and tarps, and the torn bodies; they felt little. Years ago, they might have felt horror and regret for the war, but now desensitized, they only felt a slight depression from the unending dripping rain and irritation that this was still dragging out.
Little was left to distinguish this day from every other day, hot, wet, stinking of rot, feces, and blood, and they hoped they wouldn’t be killed or maimed. With Gaither’s leading, the men raced back to report. Their faces were terrifying for the lack of emotion etched there.
Gaither gave every fact to Regal, his manner, detached.
“You may make it after all, Killer,” Regal said.
“Fuckin’ A, Sir.”
Chapter Three: 1971
David Gaither, twenty-three, walked alone down a trail, his rifle slung over his shoulder. It was cold out, and he wrapped his scarf more carefully to keep the icy wind from blowing down his neck as he tightened his jacket. His jacket was hardly suited for the freezing cold, but it was what he owned and wore, and like everything else, this cold snap in the weather, too, would pass.
His dad was in bed having a bad day as his joints screamed with pain and went weak with weight. He rarely went to bed with the pain, but today was one of those rare times that he took his medicine and rested under blankets. David left a bowl of steaming cream of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for his father when he woke from his nap.
David had already eaten.
The housekeeper had cleaned up, but David had more to do; the woman was adequate at best. She cleaned and put away clutter, changed sheets, and cooked a little, but with Aaron unable to work now and David doing side jobs as a handy-man, there was little income and they lived off what the doctor had left them; the house was paid for, luckily.
But this meant the house wasn’t as pristine as it should be. Elements were out of control. David, nervous and irritable, was trying to release some stress and calm himself. For a while he shot his .22 at loose bark, a cluster of berries, a single, hanging leaf, and a stray tin can that twinkled in the in-and-out sunlight.
Across the open land, the grass grew too long and sloped down a muddy embankment to a fast moving, cold river. The water, brownish-grey with the season, was filled with some rubbish, leaves, and small branches.
On the bridge that spanned the small river, boys played, chasing one another back and forth from bank to bank. The boys, red-faced with exertion, laughed and taunted one another, tossing pebbles at each other’s dungaree-covered legs.
David watched them with sudden, bright interest, wondering if they would run back home for lemonade and cookies. Would their mothers have board games waiting for them on the porch and ask them what they had been doing all day? What would they say as they ran into a good-smelling kitchen where dinner baked or simmered on the stovetop? Would they rush to watch cartoons or play army?
One of the boys, not twelve yet, climbed on the railing of the bridge and teased his playmates; his words were too far away to be clear, but he laughed and said he was by far the bravest and the most sure-footed. He ‘wind milled’ his arms, jokingly, but then in earnest as his balance wavered, but he would easily land on the bridge again and perhaps not tempt fate again.
The boys didn’t react to the crack of the .22 and would actually never mention it; it simply didn’t exist because they didn’t notice it as their friend teetered and fell, not onto the bridge safely, but the other way. He jerked back as the bullet hit him, and he fell into the water, already dead of a bullet to the head.
He didn’t feel the terrible cold as the river enveloped his body. For a full day, he would be carried along until his body was found. The police would be mystified by the bullet wound and wonder if it occurred when he fell or when he was in the water. Had someone shot him off the bridge or shot at his body as it bobbed along? It would be another mystery and event in the crime spree that haunted the small town.
The two boys on the bridge ran to the side and stared down; they watched until their friend was carried beyond the bend in the river. Finally dispelled of their shock, both boys yelled and ran away, both calling for their parents all the way home.
David found the entire event curious and waited to feel some type of excitement, a wave of pleasure or a glimmer of a thrill, but there was nothing there. He felt nothing at all. It wasn’t anything he planned but a spur-of-the-moment action, and it did nothing at all for his mood.
David sighed and turned to go back home.
“That was a great shot. You’re good with that gun,” a young man said, “I like that. Winchester Model 62?”
David spun and, “Good eye.”
“It’s rare to see a pump action rifle. Twenty rounds?”
“Nineteen left,” David nodded.
Three people about his age stood there in the woods, watching him with frank curiosity, but no fear. The young man who had spoken was thin framed, but strong, bringing to mind a hyperactive, twitchy weasel; close set, small eyes completed the look as did a slight overbite and long fingers that he wiggled as he spoke, “I’m impressed. I like to see good skills.”
But he wasn’t a bad looking man because of the lean muscles and because he did have good skin and thick, shining hair. As he narrowed his eyes, he looked more like an anti-hero and showed more brains than people usually expected.
“Me, too. Just pinged that son of a bitch right off the bridge. What was he thinking, climbing up there like that?” The other young man shook his head in disgust. He was heavier, but not fat, better looking and would eventually be almost handsome when the baby fat was gone; he had light hair and big blue eyes, but he motioned to the bridge with a hand covered in a slightly dirty-looking bandage.
“You going to run and tell on me?” David asked. He was already running through possibilities in his head, wondering if he should shoot all
three of the nosy people, or if he could talk his way out of this with his family’s good name.
“We ain’t tattletales,” the woman smirked. “Stan and Ronnie, apologize for your bad manners. You ain’t introduced yourselves or me, and you made him feel offensive.”
“Defensive,” one man replied.
“Whatever,” she said as she cocked her head, “I’m Lucy, and this is Stan and Ronnie, and they didn’t mean no harm. They just ain’t got really good people skills, see?”
“Nah. We aren’t planning to go tell on anyone. It’s not our business, really,” Stan said as he shook hands with David.
“What did you do to your hand?” David asked.
“Changing a tire on the van. Cut it. It was stupid really, and I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I fixed it up, but I ain’t a nurse,” Lucy declared. She was interesting to look at. In some areas, she looked a little chunky and soft, but in others, she looked a little too thin and pinched; maybe it was the way she was built. She was big breasted, wide hipped, and long legged, and dressed in tattered blue jeans and a too-thin coat. She slugged Stan in his arm.
“Ouch, Lucy.”
“You’re a Nancy-boy, Stan,” Lucy grumbled with a chuckle. With eyes brown and piggishly small, her face wasn’t particularly agreeable because it was much too wide, shaped like a heart, and hard with premature lines and bad teeth. Her lips and nose were not thin enough but were doughy. Yet, all of that didn’t distract from the fact that the other two young men were mesmerized from something very open and sexual in her expression.
“Why’d you shoot him?” Stan asked.
David shrugged, “I’m not sure. I don’t think I meant to kill him, really.”
“Right. Just to see his shocked look as he toppled off the bridge would be a hoot. Did you see how he flopped over? I wish I had that on a movie so I could watch it over and over and laugh. He looked like an acrobat that fell off a high wire and went pow.”
“Did you ever see an acrobat fall?” Ronnie asked.
“Actually I did. Once my dad and I were at the circus, and one fell, but there was a net. The whole time I was thinking how much more interesting it would be if there hadn’t been that net, yanno?”
Lucy nodded and said, “I would like to see that. Hey, David, do’ ya live around here?”
David didn’t see the need to lie; either they would turn him in, or they wouldn’t. “Yeah. Where are you from?”
“City. I went to school with Stan and was one of the bad kids his parents wouldn’t let hang out with him,” Ronnie laughed. “They said I was a bad seed, but hell, Stan is just as bad; only he don’t show it like I do on a cause he’s got more money. Home from break from college, Stan asks me why don’t we just take a road trip and see where we land. So we climbed in his van, and here we are.”
“Better than my dad hearing I’m flunking two classes and have a D and a C in the other two. I’m passing English,” Stan chuckled.
“I hope so since you speak it,” Lucy said.
“That’s got nothing to do with the class, Lucy. It’s all about grammar and writing in college,” Ronnie told her.
Lucy swept dangerous eyes across Ronnie, daring him to argue any more. “You better not be saying I’m dumb, Ronnie, or you and me are gonna have a knock down-drag out, and I’ll whip your ass.”
“She could, too,” Ronnie said, earning her nod and seeing her temper go down at once.
“They picked me up when I was hitching a ride.”
“That’s dangerous,” David said, fascinated by this information. He had served in a war and shot a kid a few minutes ago, but hitchhiking was the most dangerous thing he could think of.
“Not for Lucy. She’s got Das with her.”
“Das?”
Lucy giggled and pulled an Arkansas Toothpick from her hip sheath, “Das. Dead-as-shit. You can bet no one lives if he messes with me.” The knife was a steel dagger, seventeen-inches long with a long, sharp blade for thrusting and slashing.
“Have you ever used it?”
Lucy shrugged, “Maybe. So are you from here or you just stalling?”
“I’m from here. We have the campgrounds that way and the town, what there is of it, that way. Woods all over here and there, and I live that way.”
“Do you mamma and daddy let you have guests visit, David? I would do almost anything for a hot shower.” Lucy’s voice lowered sexily as she said that. Stan and Ronnie elbowed each other like pre-teen boys. “And we are keeping your activities a secret.”
David didn’t care for the implied threat, but he wasn’t scared; at the most, he was amused although these three didn’t know it. He followed them to their van and gave Stan directions to his house.
“Are you pulling my leg?” Stan asked.
“Huh?” Lucy asked, but she didn’t wait to find out what that meant; instead she jumped in the van with David, her mouth in an O-shape and her eyes big and wide with appreciation and glee.
“This is where I live. Come on,” David said.
“Are you teasing me?”
Lucy acted almost afraid to get out of the van and climb the steps to the porch, but when she did, she leaned against a column and looked all around, mesmerized.
“It’s a mansion, ain’t it? A real life mansion, and you live in it. Stan, it’s a mansion. Did you ever think you’d be standing on the front porch of a big ole house like this? Is it bigger than your house?”
“It’s bigger by far,” Stan said, “and older. This is like a fancy haunted house, David.”
“You don’t have any haints do you?”
“Any what?”
Lucy thought, “Ghosts. Ghoulies. Poldergusses.”
Poltergeists? David thought, “No. We don’t have ummm…poldergusses here.” He hid a grin. “Be kind of quiet, okay? My dad may still be sleeping.”
Inside, the fire had burned to coals and needed new wood in the fireplace, but the front room still was toasty warm. He motioned the three to sit down and warm themselves, pointing out scattered wool blankets. Lucy, at once, took off her boots, curled her feet beneath herself, and cuddled under a blanket on the sofa.
She looked over the fancy furnishing, noticing a silver tea service, candleholders with a mellow glow of silver, large elegant paintings, and a few elegant and decorative baubles, which looked valuable. Yet the room wasn’t littered with knick-knacks. A rug, thick and soft but not the least faded or worn, lay near the sofa. Both windows were set with stained glass above the real velvet drapes. The wood was heavy and well tended.
“This is a pretty, fancy place,” Ronnie said.
“What’s that smell?”
“The housekeeper left supper for us. I’m sure there’s plenty, so after a shower, you can eat with me if you’d like,” David told Lucy. She squealed; David cupped a hand over her mouth and said, “I need to let my father know, so come on, and I’ll show you to a bathroom upstairs. Stan, can you and Ronnie set the table in the kitchen? We’ll be informal tonight, and you can find plates and glasses.”
“Sure, David,” said Stan as grinned while he and Ronnie walked into the kitchen where David pointed.
David led Lucy up the staircase, taking pride in his home as she oohed and awed over every little picture and paused at the top to look down and admire everything as she stared at the chandelier.
She went stock-still as he led her to a bedroom where there was an en suite bathroom. Although the furniture was sparse for the room, a massive bed with a heavy cotton, deep blue-violet spread, a matching canopy with embroidered designs in gold and pale blue thread, and tasseled pillows in all shades of blue and of cream were quite the display. A big rug in the same pale blue as the colors of a cold winter’s sky lay beside the bed. Nightstands, covered in big glass lamps, sat on either side of the bed.
Twin massive armoires and a dresser with a silver comb and brush set, tiny bottles, and silver tins stood across the room from the bed. A big, bare desk with a man-sized chair, two
matching soft chairs covered in pale blue on either side of a small round table, and a soft-looking chaise lounge of dark purple sat near a partially uncovered window. A thick rug, placed near the window, was decorated in twirling designs that matched the cream, blue and violet of the bed, and the heavy drapes, pulled to the sides of the window, were pale blue with dark purple, tiny flowers. Other than the chandelier and a huge painting of violets over a fireplace, there were no other decorations. It was a clean, beautiful room.
Lucy danced in place, sighing and clasping David’s arm. She thought he was like a knight with a handsome face, pretty grey eyes, and a smokin’ hot body.
In the bathroom were the softest, thickest towels Lucy had ever touched. David showed her washcloths, some bubbles and oils, and a few other supplies. “I think you’re about my mother’s size, and her things have never been thrown out, so I’ll lay something out for you on the bed, and you can dress for dinner. I’ll go change and meet you back here.”
Although Lucy wanted to savor the hot shower and try the French bath oils, she was hungry as well as excited to see more of the house, so she rushed. When she was dry and wrapped in a towel, she found a fire neatly made and the clothing on the bed. There was an out-of-style, old fashioned slim skirt that was only a little tight and a sweater, set in a slightly lighter shade of green than the skirt, that hugged her breasts in the old, but beautiful satin brassiere with matching panties.
David knocked just as she slipped on some socks and soft leather loafers, which Lucy found silly looking and would have called vapid if she had known the word. Her hair was clumsily tied up. She met his face with a smile, but he frowned.
“Not right at all.”
Lucy frowned, her eyes turning into deadly storm clouds, “What? I don’t look good enough? I ain’t fancy enough?”
