The Trail

by Brian Francis

Father Glick lit a white candle, then pinched out the match. “Around here? Things are going about the same. Crenson never changes. Only the generations change.”

  Scott heard a note of sadness in the old priest’s voice. “Are you still holding the ceremonies?”

  “Yes, still having the ceremonies. But a cop is trying to destroy everything.”

  “A cop?”

  “Sheriff Adams. I had him down here, ready to kill him. But he escaped.”

  “Adams? Sheriff Adams? I saw him not too long ago. We were in the woods together.”

  “You did? Do you know where he is now?”

  “I don’t know,” Scott replied.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No. The last time I saw Adams, we were standing guard together, waiting for Martin. He talked about a lot of things. His job. The cult. Some waitress at the dinner.”

  Glick smiled. He quickly turned and left the room. Scott saw, through the doorway, Glick grab a passing cultist and whisper something into the man’s black hood.

  The priest returned to the room, pulled a rifle off the wall, and thrust it into Scott’s arms. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To kill Sheriff Adams.”

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four

  Scott and Father Glick hiked down the trail towards Tucker’s Store. The sky had changed from a deep blue to a lighter shade of gray, and Scott could barely detect the outline of trees.

  “Sun’s coming up,” Scott said.

  “Yes,” the priest agreed. “In a few hours it will be light. We need to hurry. Our work is best done in the dark.”

  Scott saw smoke ahead. At first he thought it was an optical illusion, another shadowy trick played by the forest of Crenson. But then he smelled burning wood.

  Father Glick grabbed Scott’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “The forest is on fire.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Find Adams,” the priest snapped.

  Scott knew that the sheriff’s escape was a problem, but he also knew that Glick was too myopic in his thinking. Find Adams. Find Adams. Yes, finding Adams was important, but so too was getting away from the fire and staying alive. So too was leaving the crime scene and not getting caught.

  Glick was becoming more like that crazy captain in Moby Dick. What was his name? Ahab? Yes, Ahab would stop at nothing to find and kill the white whale. Even if his search led to his own destruction. Glick was Ahab. Adams was his white whale. Scott didn’t want to go down with the ship.

  Glick stepped off the trail, studied a thatch of branches leaning against a large rock, and began tearing at the sticks. Soon, Scott was staring down at a gaping hole in the ground. Glick turned to Scott and smiled. “Enter.”

  Scott descended the muddy steps of the tunnel. The construction was not as elaborate as the tunnel work beneath the church.

  “How many tunnels are in the woods?” Scott asked.

  “Hundreds.”

  “Why do you have them?”

  Glick turned his yellow flashlight beam on Scott. “Because of people like Sheriff Adams.”

  They kept going. Scott breathed in the damp smell of earth and shuddered at the feel of loose roots brushing his back like a stranger’s dirty hair. Finally, Glick removed a rock, and the two emerged above ground.

  The fire was far away now. The sky had begun to flush with light. If they wanted to catch Sheriff Adams before daybreak, they were running out of time.

  Glick signaled him to start moving again.

  “Where are we going?”

  Glick did not reply.

  “Father, where are we going?”

  The priest turned and glared.

  “Martin Levy’s cabin.”

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five

  Susan looked into the receding fire. The flesh of the hiker was seared away, only the skeletal structure remained.

  “It’s a damn shame. Tex was a good kid,” Adams remarked.

  “Did you know him?” Susan whispered.

  “Only for a short time.”

  The air filled with a filthy black stench.

  “I wonder where Alex is?” Susan said, not quite under her breath.

  “The guy you decided to ditch?”

  Susan shuddered. “Please don’t say that, sheriff.”

  Adams remained silent.

  “I wonder where he is. He was sweet and helpful and his friend was just killed. I should have never left him.”

  Adams shook his head and said, “Come on. We gotta go.”

  Susan noticed for the first time that the sky was getting brighter. If we can just make it to morning, we’ll live, she thought. Then she remembered Kim’s skull, smashed under the dazzling sun. Daytime didn’t guarantee safety.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” the sheriff asked.

  “You mean, my husband? I don’t know. Gone? Separated? Maybe he left me? I don’t know.”

  They walked again in silence. Morning birds chirped overhead. Squirrels kicked up dry leaves as they hiked.

  “Why’d you marry him?”

  Susan laughed. “Look. I don’t know. Have you ever loved someone and you don’t know why? You just do? Even if that person is wrong for you?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Although I don’t think my person is wrong for me.”

  Surprised, Susan turned to look at the sheriff.

  “Nicole,” the sheriff said. “Her name is Nicole.”

  “And you love her?”

  Adams stopped and laughed. “Well, I guess I do love her. I guess I do. I only know this—I don’t care what happens to me anymore. The only way they could ever hurt me, would be if they hurt Nicole.”

  Susan watched as the sheriff’s eyes suddenly grew wild with anxiety, as if a horrible realization had just sunk in. Adams quickly turned and started marching down the trail.

  She wondered what kind of woman would love the sheriff. He was overweight, sloppy and crude, but she had to admit that there was something appealing about him. Perhaps it was how his big arms completely enveloped Susan when he held her. Susan felt safe around him. He was scared out here, like everyone else, but he wasn’t terrified. He didn’t cower to these freaks in the woods. What’s the saying? A coward dies a thousand deaths, but a brave man only one? Sheriff Adams may die out here in the woods, Susan thought. But he’ll only die once.

  Adams angled his flashlight, directing the beam toward a gray bundle by the side of the trail. “Stand back,” he said.

  “No,” Susan replied. “I need to see everything. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  As they came closer, Susan saw and heard the cluster of angry flies that hovered above the heap. Her pulse quickened.

  The sheriff pointed the flashlight straight down. Light splashed across a cracked open ribcage. The gray, ruby-flecked intestines were ripped out and slathered across the ground. The man’s chest was nothing more than a hollow basket of bone. Susan looked down at what was left of Alex’s face.

  She did not scream.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six

  The sky was blood red. Father Glick led the way toward Martin Levy’s cabin, and Scott trailed behind. Glick turned to watch Scott. Ungrateful little prick, he thought. After we kill Sheriff Adams, you’ll join him.

  Father Glick didn’t like Scott. Scott had forgotten Crenson. Glick had seen it before, in the ones who left, then came back years later. They all had a pretentious attitude of disapproval about their hometown. Scott was no different. He’d seen Scott’s sneer when he studied the shattered architecture of the old church.

  “Why are we going to the cabin?” Scott asked. “The last time I saw Sheriff Adams was out near our campsite.”

  “Don’t think about where he’s been, think about where he’s going,” the priest replied.

  “Why would he go to Martin Levy’s cabin?”

  “I think our little cop is getting tired of being chased. I think he’s about ready to
hunt. Plus, we’ve just sweetened the prize.”

  “Hunt? Hunt who? Martin?”

  “Sure, Martin. And then us.”

  Glick was not taking the sheriff lightly. Anyone who could escape from his prison under the church knew how to survive. Adams would do anything to survive, particularly for love.

  What would Scott do to survive? the priest wondered. Probably nothing.

  Scott had gone soft. Had strayed far from his roots. He’d become a money-hungry suburbanite, consumed with manufacturer’s labels and easy living. Scott was an embarrassment to Crenson, and Father Glick would make sure that the embarrassment did not spread.

  If Scott couldn’t kill Adams, he wasn’t worthy of Glick’s support. If Scott did kill Adams, it would be a first vital step in bringing the wayward boy back into the fold.

  “When we get to the shack, we’ll hide in different rooms and wait for Sheriff Adams. Martin has lots of knives and a few guns in his cabin, so additional weapons won’t be a problem.”

  Scott nodded.

  Glick wondered if Adams would be alone. It was possible he’d pick up an accomplice along the way. A drifter or a pathetic hiker. There was no chance that he’d have police backup, at least. Glick had made sure that the entire Crenson force, save for Adams, converted to the cult. He knew the cultists were currently swarming the forest searching for Adams, but his earlier vision assured him they would fail.

  Martin Levy was also stalking the cop, but Martin had not been himself in recent days. He’d become disobedient. He might be losing Martin soon.

  Perhaps it is time to let the fires rage, and allow a new cult to be born from its ashes.

  A few puffs of clouds drifted across the red morning sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. They hiked off the trail and onto a less-traveled section of path. Glick could feel the damp chill of the bogs that now bordered both sides of the passage. He had never understood why Martin Levy chose to build his shack in this dank, sunless section of the woods, with its poor drainage and mosquitoes. Perhaps it was some sort of punishment, the insect stings a form of self-flagellation. Glick slapped at a bug on his neck and steered Scott down the path.

  Glick spied a cultist shambling through the woods. He beckoned the hooded figure closer.

  “Father Glick, we can’t find him,” reported the cult member.

  The priest stared in disappointment.

  “The fire is getting too big. We can’t see anything.”

  The priest looked around, smelled the smoke, and suddenly smiled. “Here my command: let it burn.”

  The hooded figure nodded and scampered off in the direction of Crenson.

  Glick looked up to see the shack in the distance. The first thing he noticed was the rusted roof. He looked around and saw the twisted mess of charred trees. Deer antlers hung from the few remaining branches.

  He approached the shack and opened the door.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven

  The cabin smelled of feces and rotting food. Scott pulled his tee shirt up over his nose, as though that could block the rancid disease in the air. Bones were scattered on a low-slung table. Vats of urine and indeterminable liquids lined the walls.

  Scott retched and stumbled sideways. Hanging from a shattered support beam was a collection of rusty knives and daggers. Scott had known Marin Levy’s cabin would be ghastly, but he was surprised by the palpable sense of evil he felt within its walls. The ceiling spoke of murders, the floorboards groaned of torture. The cabin was a vortex of human cruelty.

  Scott had meted out cruelty in his own life, although never so pronounced, never so obvious. There was the murder of Todd Stork, a cruel act, indeed. And now the upcoming murder of his wife, to which his body sung in excitement.

  Glick accepted the setting with a bored indifference, as though it were nothing more than a shabby motel room.

  “Jesus,” Scott said. “This is quite a place here.”

  “Martin lives a primitive life.”

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Rotting flesh.”

  No shit, Scott thought. But what’s rotting? What’s dead in here? A rat? A…person? He decided not to ask.

  Scott walked over to the kitchen area. Filthy, broken dishware littered the sink. Something moved atop them—a large black snake, coiling to strike.

  “Christ!” He leapt backwards.

  Glick laughed. “Martin’s pet.”

  “It’s not funny. That scared the shit out of me. Okay, we’re here. Where should we hide?”

  “I’ll stay near the front door, you hide in the back room.”

  “Alright.”

  Scott did not like the plan. He wished they could have waited in the woods, but the priest had insisted on waiting in the shack. Scott feared the back room of the cabin. He wanted no part of the clammy darkness. He pulled down some broken blinds and smeared his hands against the dirty yellow window, clearing a hole in the thick dust. He peered through the opening. The sky was light pink.

  Once they killed the sheriff, he could leave these woods forever. Of course, he would promise Father Glick that he’d return to Crenson frequently, but he knew it would be a lie. Perhaps they both knew. He only hoped Glick wouldn’t begrudge him. He shuddered at the thought of Glick entering his world back home in Philadelphia and destroying his life.

  Tentative light penetrated the cabin. More details emerged. Blood stains on the floor. He thought of the bloody stump in the circle of trees. A smattering of disconnected religious imagery marked the walls. Inverted crosses, pentagrams, indecipherable scribbling. Scott saw a Virgin Mary statue on the floor. It was painted completely black.

  He heard Father Glick in the front room making preparations for the assault. He listened as the old priest removed a shotgun from the shack’s wall and stocked both barrels.

  Scott clutched the shotgun Father Glick had given him, and huddled in the corner, his back against the cabin wall. He wondered how long they would have to wait.

  The smell of smoke mixed with the morning air. We must be downwind of the fire, he thought. Or maybe it’s getting closer.

  He shut his eyes for a second, and that’s when he heard it: a heavy clink of chains startled him. He squinted into the darkest corner of the room. A patch of blackness moved, the chains scraped, and Scott heard the raspy moan of a human voice.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight

  Scott froze. The black heap in the corner of the back room rose and sank with the rhythms of hoarse breathing. Then it moaned again—a gargling gasp.

  “Oh, my God,” Scott said. “Who’s under there?”

  The noise stopped. Only the sporadic clink of chains continued.

  Father Glick abandoned his post at the front door and walked toward the back room. His heavy cassock swept the floor.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s someone under there. Someone’s moaning.”

  Glick stepped forward and drove a hard, quick kick into the center of the lump.

  “Awww!” a female voice screamed.

  Susan! thought Scott. Oh God, it’s Susan! His mind swam. He didn’t want her to see him, not here, not like this. She would die, and he was glad about that, but he didn’t want her to die knowing that he’d betrayed her. That he’d purposefully left her to die in the woods, at the hands of the Crenson cult.

  She had to die. No question. His old life was horrible with her. Now she knew too much. She’d seen too much. He could never return with her. She’d ruin everything again. His job. His lifestyle. If Susan made it home, his life would be over.

  And yet…it had been fun, being with her. In college.

  Scott’s stomach sank. College. There was something he didn’t want to remember about college. What was it? Jack! It was Jack. Susan loved Jack, not him. She always had. He pivoted and kicked the blanket as hard as he could.

  “Awwwww! Stop! Please stop!”

  Doesn’t sound like Susan. Maybe her jaw was shattered and h
er voice was distorted.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  It’s not Susan. This voice sounded different. Older.

  “It’s not who you think it is,” Father Glick said calmly, as he bent down and tugged at the edge of the blanket.