by Ethan Cross
“And who are you to decide who has a right to live and who should die? You’re playing God here, Sheriff, and I don’t think the good Lord looks too kindly upon impersonators.”
Their gazes locked, and the Sheriff said, “I’m sorry, son.” With those words, the gun in the Sheriff’s hand began to rise.
Without thinking and acting on pure instinct, Marcus hurled the useless handgun at the Sheriff.
The world slowed.
As soon as the gun left his hand, he grabbed the end of the table on his right. With all his strength, he flipped up the table and heaved it onto the Sheriff.
It struck the older man on the left side. A shot—likely intended for Marcus’s chest—ricocheted off the grimy part-filled shelves.
With blazing speed, he navigated the maze of shelving. He heard the Sheriff’s footfalls behind him, and as he reached the door, he turned and gave a hard kick to the last set of shelves. Like dominoes, the shelves fell into each other and cascaded toward the center of the shed.
He didn’t take the time to watch. As he slipped through the door, he heard the Sheriff cry out in pain behind him.
As he stepped out of the shed, the darkness engulfed him. Night had fallen, the only light being cast by a couple of scattered pole lights. He ran into the cover of darkness and started moving back to where he had parked his truck.
He knew that he had to move fast. It wouldn’t take long for the Sheriff to climb out of the mess and exit the door on the other side of the shed.
But where will I go even if I make it to my truck? I can’t go to the local police, for obvious reasons, which only leaves the state police. But even if I make it to the state cops, what proof do I have? How do I convince them that a local Sheriff, whom they probably all know, has gone rogue and tried to kill me?
He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Such questions weren’t important now. He had to focus on one thing at a time, and right now, escaping with his life took the highest precedence.
11
Marcus made his way around the western side of the farmhouse. He ran in a full sprint, having no intentions of giving the Sheriff a chance to catch up.
As he reached the edge of the house and was about to turn the corner into the front yard, he heard a noise that seemed out of place. His instincts cried out and told him to stop. Momentum carried him around the corner, but he was able to put the brakes on just in time to pull back.
As he did so, a gunshot cut the night air, the bullet slicing a path right where his head would have been. He peeked around the corner and caught a glimpse of the perpetrator just before another shot rang out. He saw Lewis Foster dressed all in black and crouching near the Sheriff’s cruiser.
He pounded the bottom of his fist on the side of the house. There were no new cars out front, so Foster must have already been there, waiting. The Sheriff had this planned, and he had fallen right into their trap.
He heard footfalls approaching the house from the direction of the shed. It had taken the Sheriff even less time than he had estimated to recover and engage in pursuit.
Great … caught between a rock and a hard-ass. He looked around for anything that he could use against them. A multitude of thoughts rushed through his mind, but not one of them did him any good.
He scanned the area, searching. Then, he spotted a potential weapon, probably the oldest weapon known to man. Ever since man had been given the capacity for love and compassion, the door had also been opened for hatred and envy. Such emotions led men and women to kill for what was not rightfully their own. And whenever man discovered the urge to kill, there always seemed to be a rock close at hand.
“Just surrender, son. You’ve got nowhere left to go,” the Sheriff said from around the corner of the house.
They were almost upon him. The trap was almost sprung. He could feel the noose tightening, and he didn’t have the first clue as to how he was going to escape.
Think, think, think. NO! Don’t think. React.
He knew that if he poked his head around the corner of the house, he would get it blown off. But what if I can distract Foster, even for a second? He found the answer coiled near him on the side of the house: a garden hose with a spray end.
He didn’t think. He reacted. If he would have taken the time to think it through, he probably wouldn’t have even tried it, but the time for thinking had long passed.
He grabbed the sprayer in his left hand and cranked the valve all the way open. He snatched up the rock with his right hand and headed toward the front of the house. As he started around the corner, he sprayed Foster in the face with the hose. The sudden spray of water caught the man by surprise and gave just enough of a distraction.
Foster squeezed off a shot, but missed.
Marcus hurled the rock at Foster like Nolan Ryan possessed by the spirit of an angry caveman. He had been a pitcher on his high-school baseball team. He hadn’t been the greatest, but he hadn’t been terrible either. Regardless, on this particular night, his aim was dead-on, and the rock struck Foster in the middle of his forehead.
Foster screamed in agony and squeezed off another blind shot, hitting nothing but the cold black of the night.
He covered the distance between them, and just as Foster regained his bearings, he struck the deputy again. Foster staggered back. He landed another hard blow to the dead center of Foster’s face, and the deputy went down.
Strike three, you’re out. Next batter.
He scooped up the deputy’s gun and headed for his truck, but another obstacle confronted him. Foster had slashed his tires.
A shot cut through the air. He dove behind the truck and fired a quick succession of bullets in the Sheriff’s direction, keeping him pinned on the side of the house. His hands were steady as he fired the weapon at his pursuer, but on the inside, he trembled with fear. He felt overwhelmed and wasn’t sure if he still retained the necessary fortitude to take another man’s life.
He had no reservations regarding the fight at the bar and any injuries that he had inflicted upon his attackers. After all, their wounds would heal. Taking a man’s life was an entirely different matter. He had been there. He had done that. Up close and personal, he had taken what only God could give.
Now, he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time once again, engaging in a life-or-death, kill-or-be-killed struggle. He knew that his opponent would have no reservations or hesitations at the prospect of taking his life, but he wasn’t sure if he could live with more blood on his hands.
He tried to make a move for the patrol car, but the Sheriff released his own barrage of pinning fire. Marcus fired two shots aimed at the side of the house, but the weapon’s slide-lock caught after the second shot. He was out of ammo. With no other options, he tossed the gun away and took the only door left open to him.
He ran as fast as he could into the darkness, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the men who wanted to kill him.
*
The Sheriff peered in the direction of his opponent’s position. Marcus was gone. He heard someone running off into the darkness and realized that he wasn’t going to catch the younger man on foot.
The Sheriff came around the corner just as Lewis Foster pulled himself up from the ground. Foster stood and wiped the blood from his face while he scanned the area for the man who had inflicted his injuries. The Sheriff could see that Lewis burned with a deep desire to tear Marcus’s head off.
“Where is he?” Foster said, his voice shaking.
“He ran off, probably heading for the highway,” the Sheriff replied in a calm, matter-of-fact tone.
“Well, are we going after him?” Foster said, as he stood hunched over with his hands on his knees.
“Not on foot. Don’t worry. I know where he’s going. He won’t make it far.”
*
While the hunt distracted the Sheriff and his deputy, the taker of life and eater of souls broke his way free of bondage.
When the man that the Sh
eriff had called “Marcus” kicked over the shelves, the one nearest to Ackerman had fallen on the table to which he was anchored and cracked the chair to which he was tied. This knocked him and the chair on their sides. Breaking free of the sturdy table and chair would have been almost impossible, but once the table had been smashed and the chair cracked, he exploited the chair’s weakened joints and freed himself.
I’ll have to remember to thank Marcus for his help …
He was now mobile but still chained at the wrists and ankles. His hands had been chained behind his back, but with a little maneuvering, he brought them under his feet and to the front of his body.
He scoured his surroundings for something that would help him break free of the chains. Alongside the shop’s far wall, he spotted his ticket to freedom. Fate truly smiled upon him.
He made his way over to the acetylene cutting torch that seemed as if it had been placed there just for such a momentous occasion.
He adjusted the mixture and lit the torch, using a striker left hanging on one of the tank’s valves. He fine-tuned the fire into a pure blue flame and began cutting himself free of his shackles. He realized that he would burn himself during the process, but he gave such facts little consideration. After all, he was no stranger to pain. And his flesh was already scarred.
He had decided to stick around the little town of Asherton for a while longer. He had faked unconsciousness and overheard most of what the Sheriff was planning. His interest had been piqued. He was starting to enjoy the Sheriff’s little game—but maybe it’s time to change the rules?
He enjoyed a good game. He just never played well with others.
12
Marcus ran like the devil was on his heels. He moved through a cold blackness that seemed to permeate osmotically through his skin and into his heart. The dim luminescence of the moon served as his only light.
He had hated the darkness all of his life, and although he would never admit it to another living soul, he actually feared it. He felt childish even thinking the thought, but it was one childhood fear that he had never outgrown.
The thought of some evil creature lurking in the shadows didn’t make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was the fact that he knew there were real monsters in the world. Maybe there were creatures like in the horror flicks and maybe not, but he knew for certain that there were monsters that lived inside human skin. He had seen them. He had seen what they were capable of.
And in the dark, he was vulnerable. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the monsters when they came for him. If he could see what was coming, he knew he could fight it. After all, that was his gift: to fight, to kill.
He wondered who he could trust. The state police? The Texas Rangers? Can I trust anyone? He realized that he couldn’t go to Maggie. Telling someone that their father was trying to kill you didn’t strike him as second-date material.
He had to make it to the state police or FBI. He didn’t like it, but they seemed to be his only options.
He knew that he couldn’t return to his new home. They might be waiting for him. Besides, he couldn’t think of anything there that would do him any good—except for maybe an ice-cold beer or a shot of whiskey.
His only option was to make it to the highway. From there, he could catch a ride to the next town or find a state cop along the way. Even if he had to hitchhike all the way into one of the major cities to find a state cop, he could report what he had seen, and the worst-case scenario would be the Sheriff killing Ackerman before the cops arrived. The world would be a better place without the psychopath, and he could walk away with a clean conscience, knowing that he had done his best to do the right thing.
After what seemed like an eternity wandering in darkness, he reached the highway. The two parallel lanes of asphalt curving off into the black horizon seemed like an oasis in the desert to his tired eyes. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and a renewed determination filled him as he began the long walk down a lonely stretch of South Texas highway.
13
Ackerman wandered in darkness for a couple of hours. He loved the dark. It made him feel at peace.
Eventually, he came upon a quaint, little house at the end of a long dirt lane. The dwelling wasn’t nearly as beautiful and inviting as the home of Maureen Hill, but he was certain that the inhabitants would prove to be just as accommodating. He hoped that his visit would be as significant an event in their lives as it had been in Maureen’s.
Old aluminum siding, yellowed and cracking, covered the ranch-style home. The wooden soffitting and fascia sagged in several spots, leaving open fissures. A dusty green El Camino that appeared to be on its last legs sat in the driveway, and a swing set rested in the sparse vegetation of the yard.
He could tell that this family didn’t have a lot of money, but such things didn’t matter to him. Black or white, rich or poor—he was an equal-opportunity killer.
Moving with purpose, he stalked through the front yard and past the inviting front porch like a lion creeping through the tall grass. The hunger was upon him now. He felt that, if he didn’t appease it soon, it would devour him from the inside out.
He often felt like a man trapped in a well but dying of thirst. He felt cursed by the fates to wander the world, trying to propitiate a thirst that could never be quenched and satisfy a hunger that would never diminish. He sometimes compared his own situation to the fates that the Greek gods bestowed upon the likes of Tantalus and Prometheus, destined to spend eternity in torment. He felt trapped in a world in which he would never belong, surrounded by people whom he hated with a voracity that he could not truly explain. Maybe some part of him sought an end to all of the death and madness, but the unrelenting urge to kill eclipsed any misgivings.
He crept around the house and into the backyard, where he could see a light shining from one of the home’s windows. Despite his unrelenting urges, he continued with calculated and silent movements.
He had honed his capabilities for stealth, learning to control his hunger—at least enough to facilitate the necessary caution.
He peered into the window and saw a beautiful, young woman in her late twenties, washing dishes in her kitchen sink. Her dark brown hair was tousled, and although it was tied in a ponytail, untamed strands flowed down her cheeks. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t place the vague familiarity. She wore a light-blue tank top and a pair of dirty blue jeans. She looked exhausted as she toiled over the menial chore. Her eyes were a lovely shade of green, but the dark circles that had taken up residence beneath them overshadowed their brilliance.
He wondered what poor job choice or unfortunate circumstance had cultivated the dark patches under her lovely eyes. Was she a waitress? A factory worker? A single mom, or was there a man in the house? Was an unfaithful husband the source of her stress, or did her worry stem from guilt over her own infidelities? Maybe the dark areas could be attributed to a simple lack of sleep? There were a million different possibilities, but he would never learn the real cause. And that disturbed him.
He watched and soaked her in. He found himself intoxicated by her. An urge to hold her, to love her, overwhelmed him. He wanted to pull her close and whisper that everything was going to be all right. He was strong. He could protect her. He could give her all that she lacked.
Ackerman had always dreamed of loving someone. Other than the distant memory of his mother, he had never truly experienced love. He had never loved and had never been loved in return. He wondered whether it would be possible to walk away from his life and start over as a normal person.
I wonder if she would come if I asked her to run away with me?
You’re not worthy of love.
Shut up. I can be better than this.
You’re a monster. You can’t deny what you are.
He clenched his eyes shut and pressed his hands into his temples, but he couldn’t shut out his father’s voice.
We’re going to play a little game, Francis.
No, I
don’t want to play anymore. I want the game to be over.
Kill her, and the pain will stop.
But he knew the pain wouldn’t stop. It never did.
He thought back on the first time he had killed. His father had started him small. Ackerman Sr. had captured an alley cat for use in his little experiment. He ordered his son to murder the animal, but the boy didn’t want to kill it. When he refused …
Ackerman unconsciously ran his hands over the scar tissue on his arms.
Kill her, and the pain will stop.
But no matter what he did, no matter what he killed, his father never let the pain stop.
He lowered his hands and wiped the tears from his eyes. Even if she did run away with him, he knew that he would never truly be normal. He was beyond any kind of redemption, whether he wanted it or not. He couldn’t change his fate any more than he could stop the world from turning or make the sun grow cold. His thirst for suffering would always be too strong.
As he continued to watch her, he thought about all the paths that would never be open to him and of all the wonderful things that he would never experience. Such thoughts filled him with fury. The red shroud of rage fell over him, and the woman in the window ceased to epitomize all the good that could have been. Instead, she represented all that had been stolen from him and all that he would never know.
He hated her beyond reason. He hated them all, and he would take from them what had been taken from him long ago. He would take their lives.
14
Marcus felt like he had wandered a thousand miles. He was dead tired, and he cursed his insomnia. Murderous officers of the law hunted him. He knew that they couldn’t allow him to live and that they wouldn’t stop until they found him.
