by Alex Grayson
“Sierra Butler, do you have any last words?” I ask. It’s a courtesy we give everyone who receives the Expiration Penalty.
Her lip curls up and she bares her teeth. “Only that I wish my aim was better and you felt the pain I did when you took Gary away from me.”
It takes every bit of willpower I possess to not pop my knuckles against the smirk on her face.
I keep my expression blank as I deliver my own last message. “I find it extremely pleasing that you’ll die in the exact same spot and the exact same way he did.”
“You’ll rot in hell, just like every person in this town. You’re all so hypocritical. Claiming to be righteous in your actions, calling it justice against those who harm others. The first person you killed made you just as bad as them.”
She may be right, but I’ll whistle a tune and skip my way through the gates of hell happily, knowing I stopped an innocent person from being hurt.
I pull the gun from the waistband of my slacks, flip off the safety, and point it between her eyes. For the first time since her sentence was unanimously announced two days ago, fear glints in her gaze.
Her eyes dart to the left then the right, finding Trouble and JW have their guns raised as well.
“Wait!” she shouts, panic flashing across her face.
“May Lucifer welcome you with open arms,” I growl the first line of the dictum we always use for Finishings.
“And deliver you to the darkest pits of hell,” Emo recites aggressively.
“To live out an eternity for the evil deeds you’ve bestowed,” JW says his part.
“Shall you not rest in peace,” Trouble finishes.
“I know who killed all those people during the raid twenty-four years ago!” Sierra shouts.
My finger rests against the trigger, begging me to squeeze it, but I hesitate, just curious enough to see what shit she’ll come up with.
“How would you know something like that?”
She licks her cracked lips, head swiveling to level her eyes on JW, then Trouble, before bringing them back to me.
“I heard Gary talking about it once,” she says quickly. “Eloise told him she saw the person who killed them.”
Eloise was an original member of Sweet Haven. Three years my senior, she would have been seventeen when the town was taken down.
“And why in the fuck should we believe you?” JW asks from her right.
Her back stiffens, but she doesn’t look at him.
She shrugs. “If I were to lie about something, I’d come up with a better one than that. I wasn’t born yet when Sweet Haven was raided. I’ve got no reason to think about it, unless I knew something important.”
Her reasoning is logical. We’ve always wondered who killed those twelve people but have never put much effort in trying to solve the mystery, so it’s not like it’s been a burning question amongst the townsfolk. Not like our need for revenge against the ones who escaped. We were just glad that was twelve fewer people we had to kill. Sierra has no personal ties to Sweet Haven and she’s seconds away from death. If she were lying, she’d make up something more believable.
“Give me a name,” I demand.
The smile that creeps across her face is pure evil. “Let me go, and I’ll give you all the information I know.”
Before I can react, there’s a loud blast as a gun is fired, and her expression goes slack as a bullet is wedged into the base of the back of her neck. A split second later, three more shots are fired by my brothers and me to her groin, heart, and between her eyes.
As her lifeless body falls forward, I lift my eyes to Emo.
“There’s nothing she has to say that’s worth keeping her alive,” he growls darkly, gun still pointed at Sierra like he wants to shoot her dead body over and over again.
It doesn’t take long for us to dump her body and bury her in the hole we’ve already dug. Just like for the rest of the bodies in the ground beneath us, no markers will be put on Sierra’s grave.
When the sentencing was given a couple of days ago, Sierra’s father was in attendance. Her mother chose to stay home, too distraught over Sierra’s actions and knowing what her punishment would be. Yesterday, the Butlers asked for a meeting with me to request leniency for their daughter, offering to admit her into a mental hospital instead; however, they did so already knowing the answer. Understandably, they didn’t want their daughter to die, but they also understood there was no other choice. Sierra’s punishment fit her crimes, and deep down they knew this. They’ll grieve for their daughter, just as any parent would, but for the safety of Malus’s future, they recognize the need to continue on with our laws. It’s a shit situation to be put in, and I feel sympathy for them.
“You think she really knew who killed them?” Trouble asks as we walk back to our vehicles.
“No idea,” I answer, lifting the bottom of my shirt and wiping the dirt and sweat from my face. It’s hot as fuck today. “The authorities have always said it wasn’t them, but it still could have been a pissed-off agent.”
“Hmm…,” he hums.
I don’t believe it any more than he does, but the alternative means it was a Sweet Haven citizen. I highly doubt it was one of the participating adults, which left few others. It couldn’t have been Mae and Dale, because they were busy getting shit ready to flee. After looking into each murder, we found no rhyme or reason between each person. They seemed to have been chosen randomly.
“It’s a question we may never have the answer to,” JW states thoughtfully, his keys clinking as he pulls them from his pocket.
“How’s Ellie doing?” Trouble asks.
I sigh and grip the back of my neck. “Better. She hasn’t had a panic attack in a couple of days, but the nightmares are getting worse. She woke up screaming last night. Scared the shit out of Maisy.”
“Tell her to stop by my office. I’ll give her something to help her sleep through the night.”
I nod and open my door. Just before I climb behind the wheel, JW stops me.
“When are you taking care of Mitchell?”
I grip the top of the door, my molars grinding together at the mention of my father.
“Soon,” I grunt, relaxing my fingers. “Real soon.”
He jerks his chin up, giving me a knowing look. He knows of the pictures I’ve been sending for years. He knows the reason behind them; to torment and drive him out of his mind. My revenge against my father started years ago and is more psychological than physical. I’m sure he’s guessed who’s behind the pictures by now. Every person from our past that we’ve killed, he’s received pictures. Along with some of the other sick fucks my brothers and I have taken care of. He doesn’t know when I’ll be coming for him, just that he’s on borrowed time.
And that time is about to come due.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
JUDGE
I STAND IN A DARK CORNER and watch as the silhouette of a man walks across the office, flipping on the small lamp on his desk. The glow of the light isn’t bright enough to reach me, and I quietly recline back against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other. The gears squeak as his portly body settles onto his chair, and he sets a cheap bottle of vodka down on the scarred wood. The laptop he flips open is new, because he shattered the screen of the last one.
Adrenaline pumps through me as he presses a button to bring it to life. For years, I’ve watched him from my own computer, waiting for the day I would do so in person. The last time I had the unwelcome pleasure of being in my father’s presence was the day I left him on the floor of our house, bleeding from the broken nose I gave him, my sobbing mother hovering over him.
That was twenty-four years ago, and the sight of him sickens me just as much as it did back then.
He slides his finger over the mousepad, then taps his fingers over the keyboard. He does this for several minutes before his hands freeze, his eyes locked on the screen. My mouth kicks up at the horror on his face as
the slide show of Billy’s murder comes across the screen.
“Shit,” he whispers hoarsely, frantically grabbing the bottle of vodka and downing several mouthfuls. The alcohol doesn’t stay down long though. A moment later, he’s hurling the liquid back up in a small trash can.
When Ellie and I left the cabin that day, Emo went kind of morbidly nuts on Billy. There wasn’t a strip of his skin that wasn’t marked or peeled away by the time he was done. JW said the sight even left his insides twisted. Billy had to be carried out of the cabin in a body bag.
As Mitchell wipes his mouth with a tissue, I decide it’s time to make myself known.
“The pictures don’t do it justice,” I say, stepping out of the corner. “Hearing his screams and pleas for mercy was much more satisfying.”
The chair bangs against the wall as he jumps up, turning in my direction. Only the tips of my shoes are in the small strip of light on the floor from the lamp, leaving the rest of my form shadowed. He leans forward, a hand on his desk, and squints, trying to see past the darkness shrouding me.
“Who are you?” He tries to make it a demand, but the quiver in his tone gives away his nervousness.
They always ask the same thing. Who are you, and what do you want? Neither of the answers matter.
Taking several steps, I let the light travel up my legs, over my torso, until it shines on my face. His shoulders jerk back, his eyes widening.
“Hello, Dad.”
I trail my fingers along the edge of his desk as I slowly walk across the worn carpet, stopping when they reach the end of the wood directly in front of him. His wary eyes follow me.
“It’s been you,” he says quietly. “You’ve been sending me those pictures.”
“Yes.”
He stands to his full height, which is several inches shorter than me, and takes a step backward. Gripping the back of the chair, he slides behind it, putting it between us like it’ll somehow protect him.
“Why?”
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I take the two steps that put me behind the desk and lean my ass against it. The chair rattles as he turns it to stay in front of him.
I glance down at it, then lift my eyes back to him, raising a brow. “You really think that’ll save you?”
“What do you want?”
And there we have the second question.
“What I want is your corpse rotting in a grave. The reason I sent those pictures was to show you the many different ways you could die.” The muscles in his throat tense and release as he takes a deep swallow. “But I do have a question before we get started.”
He takes a small step to the side, one of his hands dropping away from the chair, inching closer to the desk. Crossing my arms over my chest, I face forward and look at the blank wall ahead of me.
“Tell me, how is it that my mother ended up in prison while you got away?”
The answer will hold no meaning; the woman who gave birth to me was just as bad as Mitchell, but I’ve always wondered. When I left, he was on the floor. If anything, I would have thought my mother would have escaped while my father was taken into custody. I was only fourteen at the time, but I wasn’t small. The force behind the punch that landed against his jaw would have been dizzying.
I keep my eyes on the wall as he darts his hand out, slides open the desk drawer, and pulls out a gun, leveling it at my head. I don’t so much as twitch when the click of the hammer being pulled back sounds in the room. Turning my head, I don’t acknowledge the gun, but look him straight in the eye, waiting for his answer.
There’s a fine sheen of sweat coating his haggard face, and his scruffy cheeks are tinged pink. Eyes narrowed, the fearful look of before is replaced with confidence. The look brings a smirk to my face.
“Well?”
He lifts his other hand to grip the gun better. “Move back,” he demands boldly.
I slouch lower. “I think I’ll stay right here.”
His eyes flicker with uncertainty, but after a couple of seconds, he squares his shoulders, his expression turning flat.
“Move the hell back or I’ll shoot you.”
I bare my teeth in a false smile and get up from the desk, turning to face him fully. “You won’t shoot me,” I taunt. The gun rattles as his hand shakes. I eat up the space between us until the barrel of the gun hits my chest, directly where my heart beats a steady rhythm.
“Kayn,” he starts, pauses, then continues. “I’ll shoot you before I let you kill me.”
“Pull the trigger, old man.” I press closer, forcing him to step back. “Because your life has reached its end.”
The muscles in his jaw twitch. A split second later, there’s a loud click. His stunned eyes dart to the gun and it jerks against my chest as he squeezes the trigger over and over again.
I pull my hand from my pocket and hold up my fist. “You won’t shoot me because you don’t have any fuckin’ bullets, you dumb fuck.”
One by one, I open my fingers, and the bullets I stole from his gun earlier clatter against the keyboard of his laptop and roll to the floor. I take the gun from his shaking hand and toss it to the floor. My other hand wraps around his frail throat. Fear widens his eyes, and his hands grip my wrist, but he doesn’t put up much of a fight.
“Now answer my question. How did you get away while Mom was hauled off in handcuffs?”
His throat bobs beneath my hand as he tries to gulp in air. I loosen my grip, just enough for him to talk.
“S-she gave herself up,” he sputters. “She t-told me to leave, that she would distract them while I got away.”
“And you were just man enough to let a woman stand in front of you,” I state calmly, even though disgust at the man has my blood boiling. I hold no love for my mother, in fact, she’s lucky she’s still breathing in prison, but men who use women for their own selfish gain are the lowest of the low.
“You make me sick,” I spit, squeezing his windpipe and feeling the flimsy cartilage flex.
He wheezes and scratches at my leather-covered hands, but his attempts are useless.
I pick up a paperweight, his eyes going wide when he sees it, and I smash it down on the side of his head. His eyes roll upward, and his body goes lax. I release his throat and he falls limply to the floor, his head hitting the edge of the desk on his way down.
Pulling a small screwdriver from my pocket, I flip the laptop over, unscrew several screws, and take out the hard drive. I highly doubt he saved the images, but I’m not willing to take any chances.
I leave the laptop dismantled, pocket the hard drive, and turn to Mitchell. With a heave, I hoist his body over my shoulder and stalk out of the office, straight to the back door, slip outside, and walk to my car in the alley behind the house. Each house that butts up to the alley has tall fences, so I go undetected as I throw him unceremoniously into my trunk and tie his hands and feet.
It’s a seven-hour drive back home. The temperature is in the high nineties, so it’s sure to be a very hot and uncomfortable ride for him.
Which will make the trip for me all the more enjoyable.
TWELVE HOURS LATER, I rip off the final piece of duct tape and stare down at Mitchell. He’s lying face up on the same table Billy died on. It’s long since dried, but the blood and gore are still present beneath him.
I rake my eyes over his naked body, taking pleasure in seeing him in such a vulnerable position. It took four rolls of duct tape to tape him down in multiple layers. It wraps around him and the table. His legs, arms, waist, torso, and neck are immobile, not allowing him even an inch of wiggle room. Only tiny slivers of skin pudge out between the strips of tape. He even has a strip across his forehead and over his mouth, preventing him from screaming.
He’s not going anywhere, no matter how hard he fights. He’ll die on that table, a slow and painful death, only his thoughts keeping him company. It’s not as gruesome as some of the deaths my brothers and I have meted out, but he’ll
suffer regardless. Starvation and dehydration are their own sort of torture. Suffering for a period of days, knowing he has no chance to escape, feeling powerless in the face of death, his body withering away.
When we were kids, Emo’s father, Deacon, had cameras and censors surrounding the lodge. Emo had them upgraded when we moved back. Even though people know they’re not allowed in this part of the woods, he’ll still keep an eye on things. If someone steps within two hundred feet of the lodge in any direction, Emo’s phone will alert him.
I take a step back, watching as Mitchell’s cheeks move, noises coming from his throat as if trying to convey something. His eyes look around the room frantically, going to each of my brothers, silently begging them for help. Their eyes are just as cold as mine as they glare back at him.
Without a word, I spin on my heel and stalk out of the lodge. This will be the last time I see my father alive. I’ll come back in a week to make sure he’s dead, even though it’ll be more like only five days before his body gives out. I’m already dreading the stench his corpse will give off.
It’s taken years to get to this point in my life, to get the revenge I’ve craved since I was a child. To eliminate the evil that’s plagued me. Now that I’ve accomplished it, I feel lighter, free and unchained from the past.
Giving me exactly what I need to look forward to the future.
Ten Days Later…
I step through the door of the lodge, and I’m immediately assaulted with the scent of death. Walking closer to the table, the only thing I feel for the man sightlessly staring up at the ceiling is relief and satisfaction. The world is a better place without him in it, and I’m damn glad I took part in wiping him from it.
Crusted blood rims his nostrils and trails down his cheeks. His body has started to bloat. The skin is so tight around the tape that it looks like I can poke it with a needle and it’ll explode.
I’m tempted to leave him here and just let his body rot until there’s only bones left. But we still use the lodge, and I don’t want to deal with the smell when we do.
