Flashback

by Peter Grist

  In the centre stood a tight bunch of men, at least seven that he could see. Two carried long-handled spades, the rest carried rifles. Rosen turned on his flashlight, panning around the clearing but he saw no one. He then turned the beam of light on to the ground, searching for a spot he recognised. Peeking out from his position behind the log, Ed could see the light come to rest fairly close to where he and Linda had discovered the child. The night carried the men’s voices clearly, even though they spoke only just above a whisper.

  “Here”, pointed the sheriff, “you two, start over here.”

  “It don’t look touched to me, you sure this is the place Johnny?” asked one of the two younger fellas holding a spade.

  “Course I’m sure now git your ass over there and start diggin’.” Two more flashlights popped on and scanned the ground while the two diggers began their grim task. The men grunted with exertion while the others formed a rough circle around the ever-deepening hole. Another two men joined them a few minutes later, out of breath and panting. It was Ash from the junkyard along with the manager of the local hardware store. Ash sidled up next to Rosen. “The bitch weren’t there but her car’s still outside the house.” Rosen just grunted and nodded his head. Silence fell on the area except for the regular noise of spades cutting into the earth. Ed waited patiently until he heard one of the diggers say “Hey, I got something here!” At that Ed said out loud, “Hold it right there. You’re surrounded. Put your weapons down!”

  Everyone standing in the group swung towards the direction of the voice from the dark, rifle barrels coming up in unison.

  “Put the weapons down……NOW!” Ed repeated. The beams of many flashlights tore across the clearing in the direction of where Ed’s voice had come from, trying to locate its source.

  Mayor Willets spoke first. “Over there, behind that log. Shot the son of a bitch!” he roared as he opened fire with a pistol. Although some of the group had seemed reluctant to fire, it seemed that a frenzy had come over them, spurred on by the first couple of shots from Willets. The fallen tree trunk that hid Ed Saunders erupted into a shower of splinters as chunks of bark and woody flesh tore away from the limb. Buster’s friends didn’t need telling, they could all see that the log wouldn’t give protection for much longer. John opened fire first, taking a bead on one of the gunmen with his hunting rifle. The sound of his shots was lost in the cacophony of noise from the other firers but when one of the group in the centre yelled out and pitched backwards, the rest noticed. The two men in the open grave ducked down as the rest of Buster’s friends followed John’s lead and opened fire. The attackers now became the attacked. They twitched around in every direction, startled, looking for where the attack was coming from, firing off wild shots into the darkness. Sam Ryan screamed as his left leg was hit, felling him like a giant redwood. Another of the group dropped his rifle as he was hit in the hand. The rest stopped firing and either crouched or threw their weapons on the ground and held up their hands in surrender, all, that is except Willets and Rosen. In the few seconds that the fire-fight had lasted and the confusion it had brought with it, they had both walked backwards towards the line of trees, and as the last few shots were ringing out they turned and ran back the way they had come. Still in cover, Ed shouted at the group in the centre to drop their weapons and to stand up. Powerful flashlight beams from around the area started to pop on and point at the group, reinforcing the perception that they were outnumbered and completely surrounded. Except for the injured ones, they all rose to their feet and raised their hands. They were joined by the two diggers who climbed cautiously out of the grave. The group huddled together for protection.

  Ed was the first to come out of cover, swiftly followed by the others. They encircled the group, the ones with weapons kept them aimed at the men in the centre. George went forward and picked the weapons off the ground and threw them behind him, keeping his shotgun trained on the group throughout. Through the light fog of gunpowder and with the smell of cordite hanging in the air Ed swept the beam of his light across the faces of the men. They all looked down at the ground in resignation except for Bill Emmett, the barman that Ed had met on his first day in Ludlow. The thin old man stood proud and defiant. He looked straight back down the beam of light to Ed. “I told you not to git involved mister. Now you gone and got yourself a whole world of trouble, you all have, mark my words, you all gonna regre….” Buster had silently stepped forwards and taken a mighty roundhouse swing at the barman. As his huge fist made contact with Emmett’s face, the barman’s words were abruptly cut off as he was physically lifted from the ground by the force of the impact. He landed heavily in a heap at the foot of remaining men, completely unconscious. Buster stared at the rest of the group. “Anyone else got somethin’ to say?” There was only silence but for the whimpers of the injured. Buster grunted at their submission.

  “Man, that felt good!” Buster turned toward Ed. “You said you saw some people trying to give me a hard time a ways back? Well, he was a lot older than the rest and shoulda known better, but he was one o’ the worse.”

  It was Linda’s voice that came out of the darkness next. “Where are Rosen and Willetts, they’ve gone?!”

  The group looked around the clearing, illuminating dark corners with the beams of their lights.

  “Damn them, they’ve got away!” admitted George.

  “Not yet they ain’t!” roared Buster, frustration and sadness clear in his voice. For his size, he was quite fast on his feet. The group watched as he lumbered on his thick legs in the direction of the cars.

  “I’ll go with him.” said George and ran after the Goliath.

  The two groups faced each other. Finally, Sam Ryan, the motel owner raised his head. “I need a hospital, I’m bleeding to death here!” Ed looked at the welt on Ryan’s leg.

  “Sadly it’s just a graze, you’ll live.” He beamed the light around the clearing until it came to the prone body near the centre. He walked over and wrenched the rifle from the body’s firm grip and threw it away. Ed then lent down and felt the neck for a pulse. There was none. John came over with a flashlight and swiftly beamed it along the body. Two holes in the upper chest oozed liquid, bright red under the torchlight, to confirm Ed’s diagnosis.

  “That was me”, said John in a whisper. “It’s Ash Barrett from the Junkyard, I been huntin’ with him a few times. He’s a mean son of a bitch and a good shot too. He was aiming straight for you, I didn’t want to risk a leg shot and miss”.

  “Thank you John, I think I might owe you a beer or two for that”. Ed replied with a sigh. They walked back to where the rest of the group were bunched together.

  “What you gonna do with us?” asked Ryan.

  “We ought t’ shoot ya, is what we should do, ya sick sons a bitches!” one of Buster’s friends replied while pulling back the bolt on his hunting rifle for effect. The noise of the cold steel of the rifle being cocked forced the murdering group to huddle even closer together.

  Ed spoke next, pointing to the two that had been digging. “You two can get right back in that hole and carry on what you were doing. John? Keep ‘em covered. The rest of you sit down right where you are and put your hands on your heads. If you try anything, I can’t guarantee these folks won’t shoot you dead before the police get here, so best do as I suggest.”

  The two younger men reluctantly retrieved the spades where they had fallen and crawled back over to the grave. John followed them, the shaft of brightness from his flashlight pointing out from the top of his hunting rifle where it rested along the barrel.

  Ed turned to Linda. “Call 911 and ask for the detective branch of the County Police, or maybe State Troopers, just make sure you don’t get put through to the station in town. There should be someone there even at this time of night. Oh, and you had best ask for a medic for these guys.” He finished, pointing at the injured men. She turned away and walked a few feet from the group, dia
lling on her cell, her face illuminated by the screen on her phone. Ed looked at her silhouetted profile for a few seconds then turned back to the seated men and fixed his flashlight beam onto the rotund torso of Ryan. The jelly-like body shivered under the weight of the brightness.

  “I have some questions for you before the cops arrive. How many of you are there?” Ryan didn’t answer. “Lost for words Mr Ryan? That’s not like you. Talk to me or talk to Buster when he gets back, it’s up to you?” Sam Ryan glanced across at the still unconscious figure of Bill Emmet lying spread-eagled over the ground and the dead body of Ashley Barrett.

  “Twelve, there’ always twelve.” he murmured.

  “Shut your mouth you old fool, they ain’t got nothing on us.” Spat another of the group near the back. Ed beamed the light onto the face that had spoken. He didn’t recognise the middle-aged man.

  “I think you are very wrong about that” replied Ed. “Just being here is evidence enough, but you’ve seen the TV, once those CSI people start looking for DNA and hair and things, they’ll have all they need to send you away forever. Hey, don’t they have the death penalty in this State?” The man dropped his head back towards his crossed legs.

  Ed turned back to Ryan. “You were saying?”

  “There’s always twelve of us, no more, no less.”

  “I counted only eleven, who’s missing? No hang on, let me guess Esther Mourn’s husband. What’s his name? Jed, right?”

  “How the hell would you know that?” Ryan seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Oh, just a stab in the dark. Does his leg play him up sometimes?”

  A bemused look came over Ryan’s face.

  “Let’s just say I bumped into him a while back.” A picture of Mourn and Ed in that brief tussle popped fleetingly into his mind. “So what are you, Klu-Klux-Klan or devil worshippers or something?”

  “No!” replied Ryan indignantly. “Not at all, we are nothing like those hicks. We are ‘The Devout Thules.” He said rather proudly.

  “The devout what?”

  “Thule.” Ryan was getting some of his loquacious character back. He pressed on. “The Thule Society was started by some Nazis in World War Two, but we aren’t Nazis, oh no, we are a brotherhood, just trying to keep our country pure of contaminants like jews and nigg…..” The word was halfway out of his mouth before he realized he was surrounded by a host of black folk carrying guns.

  “Yeah, you go right on ahead and say it,” jibed one of Buster’s friends from the shadows. “And see if I don’t put a bullet through that thick head o’ yours, then you won’ have to worry bout our blessed country no more.” Ryan laid his large chins back on his chest. Linda had come back to rejoin the group. As she slipped her cell phone back into her jacket pocket she said, “I know a little about the Thule Society. They were an occult group started just at the end of the Great War by a German called Rudolf von Sebottendorff. Thule was the sponsor of the Nazis party in its infancy, Heinrich Himmler was a leading light as were a lot of other Nazis. Thulers believed in a lot of spiritual stuff and looked for secret weapons that they could use against the allies along with searching for the ultimate Aryan race. I think it still exists around the world but they don’t go around murdering kids; they’re more like a Masonic lodge now.”

  “Well that’s true enough” agreed Ryan reluctantly, “but we aren’t the Thule Society, we are The Devout Thules, completely different.”

  “Really?!” asked Ed disbelievingly. “How so?”

  “Well we were one of their lodges many years ago but we were seen as too militant for them and I guess we were kinda ex-communicated, so we went our own way.” All the while he was speaking he kept a close eye on Buster’s friend. “They started letting all sorts of trash join so we were happy to go it alone. We wanted to go back to what the Society stood for between the wars and try and uncover the secrets that the extra-terrestrials had bestowed upon us but have been lost in time.”

  “I think I’ve heard enough,” said Ed, “You guys are crazier than a pack of dogs in a hubcap factory.” The group fell silent, the only noise now coming from the critters in the woods and the grunts of exertion from the two gravediggers. Ed turned to Linda. “Did you get through?”

  “Yes, I spoke to a Captain Dewhurst. He took some convincing but he’s getting a team together and thinks he could be here within the hour. I said one of us would meet them at the bottom of the foothills to guide them up.”

  “Good thinking, I’m going to….”

  He was cut off by two shots barking out in quick succession, amplified by the darkness and making everyone jump.

  “Jesus Christ!” cried John, “What the hell?”

  “John, are you and the others okay to keep an eye on this bunch?”

  “For sure.”

  Ed didn’t waste any more time. He turned and took off towards where Buster had followed Rosen and Willets, knowing the sound they had heard was the sharp crack of a pistol, and knowing too that Buster and George weren’t carrying pistols.

  Buster stomped through the forest with a speed and agility that defied his size but he made no attempt to stay quiet as he bull-dozed after Mayor Willets and Sheriff Rosen. It was all George could do to keep up. They had already splashed through the water and were nearing the track where the vehicles were parked when Buster caught sight of a figure in the darkness. It was Willets. The old man was starting to flag and Buster increased his speed, quickly closing the gap. Ahead Mayor Willets was puffing heavily and limping on his arthritic legs but self-preservation kept him moving. He sensed more than heard someone behind him. He turned to see a dark mountain of flesh just ten feet away from him. He stopped dead and raised the old Colt revolver in his quivering right hand. He snatched at the trigger, once, twice, the sharp recoil pushing the barrel upwards. Some of the Mayor’s earlier arrogance returned for a fleeting moment but the huge man coming towards him barely slowed. Buster gave a deep growl, bent lower and barrelled into Willets with his shoulder like a football player. “Oomph!” The air was forced from Willet’s lungs as Buster hit the old man. The mechanic hit with such force that the Mayor left the ground completely, sailing six feet through the air before slamming into the base of a big old pine tree. As the old man flew through the air legs and arms akimbo and Buster thundering past he thought to himself, ‘I hit him, I know I hit him.’ It was the last thought he had as his head hit the tree, snapping his fragile neck in the process, the limp, lifeless body crumbling to the ground.

  Buster kept going, his goal was Sheriff Rosen, and he could just see him through the trees, but he was feeling weak, he started to slow. Adrenaline pushed him forward but his legs started to feel like jelly, his eyes were losing focus but he couldn’t understand why. When the mayor had fired he had felt a couple of stings, like a bee, but now his strength was sapping. There, not fifty yards ahead, Rosen was looking back at him then running on. Buster stumbled and went down on one knee. He looked down at his stomach; his shirt was covered in liquid. He touched it and felt the thick stickiness of it. In the darkness of the forest, it looked shiny black. Another dark patch was leaking from a hole through his cargo pants in his thigh. George arrived at his side, panting. “Buster, you okay man?”

  “George, I don’t feel real good, I think I bin shot.”

  His friend knelt down beside him. “Argh craps Buster, what you gone and done. Sit down against this tree, let me take a look at ya.” With an effort he helped his friend over to the base of a large pine and let him slide down until Buster’s legs were stretched out in front of him. “What bout Rosen, he getting’ away. He killed my little princess!”

  Don’t you worry none about him, he’ll get his due soon enough, right now I need to take a look under your shirt.” George managed to untuck Buster’s shirt and pull it up enough to see the wound. It was the size of a nickel, just to the right of centre but it was bleeding heavily. George got a han
dkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the whole. “You push down on that hard while I take a look at your leg.” He got a multi-tool from a pouch on his belt and unfolded the knife. With the greatest of care, he cut into the fabric of Buster’s pants. Another nickel-sized hole cut into the dark flesh and muscle. That too oozed blood but not as quickly as the stomach wound. George looked down at his own body, looking for something he could use as a tourniquet. Nothing seemed obvious. “What in hell am I gonna do?” he asked himself.

  “If you’s thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ to strap ma leg wid, you could do worse than your belt there.”

  George looked down at his waist.

  “Less you afraid O losin’ your pants!” Buster added with a faint smile on his lips.

  “Of course!” he exclaimed.

  He un-cinched the buckle and slid the brown leather belt through the loops of his old army fatigues, popping the tool pouch into his pocket. As he gently slipped the belt under the huge thigh of his friend he tried to keep Buster distracted. “Well I guess with all the beers I been drinking lately I don’t think I really need the belt anyway my pants are getting so tight.” The humour wasn’t lost on Buster with George being as thin as he is, but he still winced as George moved the belt around Buster’s leg. He worried that the belt wouldn’t be long enough but it came round and he hitched it tight just above the wound with a couple of notches to go. The blood still oozed slowly. “I think you need to pull tighter.” said Buster.

  “Well okay, but hold on, this is gonna hurt some.” George tugged hard on the belt and took it to the last notch, the blood stopped flowing almost straight away. Buster didn’t flinch when it was done but George could see the pain etched on his friend’s face.

  “That’s all I can do for you right now old buddy. I need to get you some help.”