The hunted, p.18
The Hunted, page 18
BAM! This one is very close, so close I feel splinters of wood flutter around my face. I see what I need, grab it, and crouch. I rip out pages of Beaver Hunt magazine and twist them into a cone. I tear the pages at the top edge to make a rough fringe. The pillow and bottle are at my feet.
“It’s almost done. I’m tired. After I take care of this situation,” I can hear his feet on the wood rungs, and his voice is getting louder as he nears the loft, “I will make sure it’s done, once and for all.”
chapter sixty-three
Saturday, September 12, 2009, Midday
angel
I struggle to keep the cone tight while I open the matchbook and tear out the single precious match. Instead, I drop it. Damn! I squat and feel around with my hand again. Pat, pat, pat. I don’t find the matchbook, but my hand touches something unexpected. Cool metal. Can it be? Is luck finally turning my way? I don’t take my eyes off the place where the ladder joins the loft floor. Yes! It is! I pull out an old gun someone tucked into the sleeping bag. Maybe one of the Johnson brothers, fearful of their father.
I’m starting to believe in miracles after all.
The only exposure to a gun I’ve ever had is CB’s little pink revolver. I know this is a revolver, too, but I couldn’t tell you what kind. It’s black metal with a wood handle, and it’s good sized. I doubt it was new when the reader of the girly magazines hid up here. It looks like it’s straight out of an old western. I see the cylinder part but have no idea if there are bullets in it. I’ve never held a gun in my hand, much less shot one.
“Well, I’ve enjoyed our little chat, but it’s time to get to business,” Jonny Law announces as he breaches the top of the ladder and steps onto the loft floor.
Fear floods my body, all my bravado gone in the blink of an eye. I have just enough presence of mind to move the gun behind me, but that’s it. I trip on the bottle-spiked pillow in my panic and fall to the ground, landing half on the sleeping bag, half on a pile of empty Jack Daniels bottles. At least one shatters under me when I land, and I feel stabbing pain in my hip near the bullet wound.
Lady Luck gives, and Lady Luck takes.
Jonny Law smiles the same angelic smile he gave me when he dropped me at the motel and walks forward until he’s standing over me, one booted foot on either side of my thighs. “Well, now, this isn’t at all the way I expected our acquaintance to play out. I thought you were going to force me to kill you early on, and take away the pleasure of getting to know you.”
I roll to my side, try to curl into a ball between his legs, which sends shooting pain through my hip. There are no words for how I’m feeling. I can’t be someone else’s plaything again. I can’t. I’d rather die.
“Playtime is the most fun of all!” he says. The rifle is no longer aimed at me. Instead, it’s hanging down by his side. Jonny Law is feeling confident that he’s got the upper hand. I’m afraid he’s right.
Angel! Shoot the motherfucker! Bud shouts. In my panic, I’d nearly forgotten the gun!
The revolver feels awkward and alien in my hand. I don’t have time to worry whether it’s loaded, or if I can aim straight, or if it will blow up, or shoot me instead. I raise the gun and point it straight up toward his head. I whisper a little prayer, and pull the trigger.
Nothing happens.
I’m not sure who is more shocked—him, that I have a gun at all, or me, that it didn’t do anything. He recovers quickly, and bends over me, grinning.
I roll onto my back, hold the gun with both hands, and point it at him again. The muzzle is aimed at his face. That’s when I see the cock and pull it back, then squeeze the trigger again.
Jonny Law jerks away as the bullet leaves the gun but he doesn’t escape entirely. Many things happen at once. There’s a bang! and he howls and stumbles backward. I crab-walk on my hands and feet through the broken glass, away from him, staring in horror. There’s blood. So much blood. But he’s still alive!
How can the monster be moving? How can he see me through all that blood? I have no idea, but he can, and he does, and he’s angrier than ever.
chapter sixty-four
Saturday, September 12, 2009, Midday
harper
I meant it when I said I’d slow Em down, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and rot, sucking in the smell of death while I wait to join it. Not knowing whether Em is alive or dead will speed my journey to the afterlife, I have no doubt. I’ll keep my promise to stay alive as long as I can, but if I’m going to die, which I’m sure I am, I want to die fighting, not sitting around waiting for the grim reaper to find me.
Just as I am ready to test my courage and open the door, I hear the sound of feet pounding through the leaves outside. Small feet. Vero’s feet? No, she’d be the one chasing, not being chased. I understand the first steps are the ones being chased because only a few moments later, I hear heavy feet crashing through the leaves. The Sheriff is after either Angel or Emily. If my sense of direction is working at all, they came toward the buildings. They weren’t headed back to the field and woods. It has to be Angel. Emily should already be at the house or near it, shouldn’t she?
I wait to hear if there are any more footsteps or if they change direction and head back toward me, but it’s silent. I crack the door and peek out. No one. I listen again. Nothing. Now or never, Harpy. Now or never.
It feels safer and smarter to go around the back of the kennel since I’ve already spotted at least one camera on the front. I’m certainly not fast on my feet, but knowing that I’m moving toward a definitive outcome, one way or another has given me a little bit more energy. Unfortunately, having a jacked-up leg does not infuse one with grace, and I feel like I’m lurching Quasimodo-style. Whatever. Probably goes with the rest of my current ‘look.’
Once I’m around the back of the kennel, I can see between the buildings. The large circular driveway is currently empty except for Dear Sherriff’s SUV by the house. I hear talking coming from the barn. Definitely the Sheriff, but who is he speaking to? It’s unclear. He’s telling a story with the charmer voice, not the creepy monster voice. Maybe he’s telling Angel the story he told me at the creek. We get it, dude. You had a fucked up childhood. Who didn’t?
Whoever he’s telling is in deep shit. I need to help if I can. That is when I spot the single door in the back of the barn’s foundation. It’s a start.
chapter sixty-five
Saturday, September 12, 2009, Midday
cb
There’s no intercom at the gate, no way to communicate with anyone inside. I look up and see two cameras pointed toward the road. If someone is watching, they know we’re here.
“We really are going to have to bust through,” I say primarily to myself, although Oakley is standing beside me. The gates are the kind commercial businesses have, a sliding cantilever system that rolls on cables. I know Casita will be damaged, and I’m okay with that, but I’m not 100% sure she can make it through. The one thing I have going for me is that the gate is at the T of the intersection, so I can get good speed going before we hit. The fastest I’ve ever run Casita without a load is 85. My trailer would typically be full, but I did what Angel begged me to do and had a friend take the load back east for me. We’re running empty.
The kid doesn’t say much, as usual. I motion with my head to get back in the truck. I maneuver until I can turn us around and head away from the ranch down the straight gravel road. I have to find a way to turn around, and that’s not going to be easy. I’m sweating with nerves.
“Kid, you ever shoot?”
“Shoot?”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “A gun.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“You any good?”
“Yeah.” He actually smiles, and it’s the first time I’ve seen it. I can sort of understand what Emily sees in him, I suppose. He’s sweet, definitely. Good looking in a pretty boy way. Quiet, but thoughtful. If he really is any good at shooting, I’ll bump him from a 6 to a 9. If not for the stupid threesome thing, he’d go all the way to a 10.
“See my floral bag there,” I indicate with my head. “Get it. Look in the side pocket.”
He clambers out of his seat and nearly loses his balance. We’re going straight, and nowhere near as fast as we soon will be. I drop him from a 6 to a 5.
Bag in hand, he pulls himself back into the passenger seat. “Got it.”
“Side pocket, in a satin drawstring case, there’s a revolver. Pull it out. Carefully. It’s not loaded, but I don’t want you dropping it.” I spot a dirt road up on the right and slow. I’ll turn in and then back out so I’m headed the way I need to be. “The bullets are in the satin bag so keep it out.”
Oakley retrieves the satin drawstring case and returns the gym bag to the floor behind him. He loosens the strings of the bag and takes out the small pink and silver revolver. It looks silly in his large hand. Without direction, he loads bullets into the gun. He puts the satin bag with the remaining bullets in the front pocket of his jeans.
I slam on the brakes and he almost slides into the footwell as Casita slows. “Sorry. I just had a thought.” Once we’re stopped I pull to the side of the road, and jump down. I leave my door open and yell, “Stay there.”
I hurry to the back and wind down Casita’s landing gear until it’s touching the ground. Then I exhaust the air out of the air lines, disconnect the air and electrical lines that connect the cab and the trailer, and stow the lines in the dummy coupler on the back of the tractor. The last step is to pull the pin from the fifth wheel. I squat down and check that the jaws are open, then haul my butt back into the cab.
“What’re you doing?” Oakley asks. I’m sure he notices I’m now splotched with grease stains but he doesn’t comment.
“We’re leaving the trailer here. That way the white knights will know they’re headed in the right direction, and it will be much easier to maneuver Casita through the busted gate without the extra length.”
I pull Casita forward a foot, park, and jump back down. Separating the two parts is not an instant operation. I check that the pin is out, that the dollies are holding the trailer, and jump back into the truck. Seven minutes start to finish.
I text Nick about the trailer. It’s an arrow pointing toward the ranch gate. I shove the phone in my back pocket.
“When we bust through the gate, if I remember what Em said, we still have a ways to go before we get to the guts of this horror show,” I say as I gradually increase Casita’s speed. “After we bust through—I don’t want any debris kicking up and flying in—open your window and prepare to make like Bruce Willis. You see anyone that’s not our girls, you shoot to incapacitate.”
Oakley nods once, and he has such confidence, I think he’s going to do okay.
Casita is running at 72. I can see the gate a hundred yards ahead.
“You’re going to want to put your seatbelt on and brace for impact. I don’t know exactly what will happen since I’ve never tried to ram through steal gates before.” I say with a grin. I start singing, first quietly, then louder and with great enthusiasm, and eventually, Oakley joins me.
Come on and join our convoy, Ain’t nothin’ gonna get in our way, We gonna roll this truckin’ convoy cross the USA!
chapter sixty-six
Saturday, September 12, 2009, Midday
angel
I push to my feet, ignoring the pain in my hip and my side. I point the revolver at him and try to shoot again, and again, and again, but all I hear is Click. Click. Click. I fling the gun away, just in case. I don’t want him to be the one who finds the one remaining bullet, if it exists.
As he stumbles around, hands extended in search of something to steady himself, I find the pillowcase. I cast about, searching for the magazine pages. There they are! I grab them. I don’t have time to make a pretty cone. There’s no time for anything! My hand dips into my jeans pocket, searching for the matches but coming up empty. Where did it go? Where? He’s getting closer!
I spot the matchbook on the floor and dive for it. I watch him coming toward me as I scramble back onto my feet.
His eyes are filled with blood. He’s moving like a blind man. Every few seconds he coughs and sputters. Now that we’re close, I can see the damage to his face. There’s a large hole where his mouth and cheek join, giving me a nightmarish view of teeth and gums. The eye on that side of his face isn’t in good shape, either. Blood must be filling his throat. His arms are flailing as he tries to grab me. He’s between the ladder and me, only a couple of feet away!
Oh please, oh please, oh please...
I tuck the magazine cone into my armpit, so I have both hands free to light the match. I rub the tip of the thin cardboard strip across the sandpaper. Nothing. The head of the match changes from red to reddish-gray. Shit! I focus, and this time it catches. I pull the cone from under my arm and hold the burning flame against the torn fringes of paper. At first, nothing happens. Then, finally, just as he’s near enough to touch me, I have a good flame.
He’s so close! I can’t look away. His handsome face is gone. One whole side is obliterated, including a chunk of his nose. There’s nothing but flesh and bone. The top front of his skull is exposed where his hairline was shot away. One of his eyes is still intact, but clearly he’s not seeing well, if at all. Only shock and adrenalin keep him coming for me.
I have the cone of burning paper in one hand, the weighted feather-filled pillow in the other. I bring the two together, and as soon as the pillow begins to burn, I swing the fiery pillowcase and its hidden Jack Daniels bottle at Jonny Law’s head.
He’s upright, barely, only a few steps from the place where the ladder reaches the loft. The pillowcase is fully engulfed, but I’m not sure he can see the ball of flame coming at him. The pain of the glass bottle crashing into the raw meat that was his face is another unexpected event. The blaze catches what is left of his hair, and he pats at it like it’s a pesky fly.
With an inhuman roar, he gropes forward, desperate to grab me and take me down with him.
No! I raise my foot and kick hard, connecting with his thigh. The kick sends him backward, flying over the edge of the loft, arms thrashing. He’s screaming as he falls.
I look for the rifle and realize he must have dropped it over the edge when I shot him. I peer over and see him writhing on a pile of clothes on top of the bales of hay. His features—his hair, his face—are mostly gone. The hay is now a bonfire, the junk and trash and years’ worth of crap acting as kindling.
Well, hell. The bottom of the ladder ends right in the center of the inferno.
chapter sixty-seven
Saturday, September 12, 2009, Midday
angel
Part of me feels bad. That must be a horrible way to go, missing half your face, and on fire. It’s shocking to me that I did that to him. If I’d had any other way, I would have taken it, wouldn’t I? I didn’t enjoy doing that to him, did I?
Obsess about it later, idiot, Bud orders. Right now, you need to figure out how the hell you’re going to get out of here before the barn burns to the ground.
Yeah, that’s definitely a priority.
Angel, seriously, enough with the wisecracks! Get your ass out of there!
The problem is, I have no idea how to get my ass—which now hurts like a mothereffer—out of here. I look over the edge of the loft one more time to determine exactly how much trouble I’m in. A lot.
Jonny isn’t moving. He’s more flame than man now. The run of hay bales is completely engulfed and the fire is moving across the barn floor.
There is no other way to get from up here to down there. With each second, the fire spreads and eats up more of the junk and trash, Miss Pacman style.
Just as I think that thought, a banshee scream fills the barn, and a tiny woman with long, thick dark hair rushes in, machete in one hand, ax in the other. This must be the infamous Vero. Veronique. She’s a grim version of CB. The two are very similar in height, body, hair, attitude. Yet one is good, the other evil. And the evil one is pissed with a capital P. “Jonny! Who did this! I will send them to hell!”
With that promise, she looks up and sees me. “Bitch! You will suffer much worse torments than your stupid puta friends even can imagine! te enviaré al infierno.”
I think that means she’s going to send me to hell. She’d have to get up here first. I watch her disappear out of sight into the barn. I panic—maybe I was wrong. Is there another way up here? But no, there are no trap doors that I can see. Other than the ladder, the only exit seems to be a wood-shuttered window I hadn’t noticed until now.
I look over the edge of the loft. Vero is back. She’s pouring a line of liquid along the floor, across the barn parallel to the loft ledge. Lighter fluid? Or gas? Oh, shit. Oh, shit. She’s going to make sure I go to hell with him!
That’s not all she has planned for me, the killer of her lover. She has retrieved Jonny’s bow and arrow, and she stands at the open barn doors and looks up, a broad, insane grin on her beautiful face. Her accent is thick when she says, “Let’s go!”
The first arrow misses me by only an inch.
I have to get out before one of those arrows finds me. Through the barn is no longer an option, even if I could somehow get down. It probably never was, with all that crap just waiting to stab me to death.
My only hope is the window behind me. My side and butt are on fire now, and there’s a lot more blood. Whereas the flesh wound from the bullet burned, now everything on that side of my body is in pain from the waist down.
Just get out, Angel, Bud warns. Now.
