Colossus

by Jette Harris

  “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  He already knew the answer. Her breasts were already becoming swollen. They had been growing increasingly tender over the past several days; She winced every time he touched them.

  She stared at him with her innocent eyes, then she shook her head. “No,” she lied.

  Rhodes smirked, but nodded. He shut the door and locked it.

  ****

  Heather had not been sick, but her face was a sickly shade of green when Rhodes returned. She turned her bitter eyes up to him, but held her silence. He put a bucket of cleaning supplies on the floor in front of her and pointed to Monica’s closet.

  “Clean it up.” He expected some kind of resistance. He could see her fighting to control her expression, her emotions, but nothing came to surface. She took a deep breath, grabbed the bucket, and immersed herself in the work. She began to hum some mournful, unfamiliar tune. He leaned his head against the door frame. She worked meticulously, just as he did, with attention to detail.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he thought aloud.

  “You could let us—”

  “Stop.”

  Heather leaned back with a sigh and a sniff. “Do you have any Febreze?”

  “I’ll get some when I go out.” He cringed. He should not have let slip he was going out. He had been planning on getting supplies to fix the window as soon as he had finished with her, but Monica had delayed him.

  Heather tossed the dirty paper towels in a plastic bag, then returned the supplies to the bucket. Standing, she held the bucket out to him. He didn’t take it. He kept a straight face, but his mind was racing.

  “Is Monica going to be OK?” she asked.

  “No, she’s not,” he replied. “But she’s not in any immediate danger.”

  Believing she understood, Heather nodded.

  “Follow me.” He still did not take the bucket. He led her back toward the Bedroom, on the way stopping by a linen closet. “Put the bucket in there,” he said, opening it. “And that,” he added, taking the bag of dirty paper towels from her and tossing it in. Closing the closet, he took her into the Bedroom. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him, but pointed to the bathroom. “Wash your hands.”

  As Heather was in the bathroom, he went to the bedside table and pulled out a bottle of water and a bottle of pills. He tipped a pill out, bit it in half, and dropped the other half back in the bottle. Holding the half-pill carefully between his teeth, he closed the drawer.

  Heather was standing just outside the bathroom, gazing at the open Bedroom door. Taking her face in his hands, he leaned down and kissed her. He shoved the pill into her mouth with his tongue. She recoiled with an alarmed squeal.

  “The fuck is that?”

  “Hold it under your tongue.” After a moment, he opened his mouth wide, indicating she should do the same. Reaching a finger in, he was satisfied when he did not find anything.

  “What was it?” Her tone was calmer.

  “Hydromorphone,” he replied. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to want to lie down.”

  60

  Even with Heather stoned beyond the shadow of a doubt, Rhodes did not trust her alone with Monica. He left Heather in the Bedroom and Monica locked in the bathroom while he was gone. To make it up to Monica, he allowed her to spectate as he demolished the broken window and installed a new one.

  “Can I help?” She offered more out of habit than desire. She had always sought to do things that kept her on his good side, believing it would make him reluctant to hurt her. She had now learned this was not the case.

  “Stay on the bed.” Rhodes, perched on the windowsill, pointed at the glittering flecks of glass on the floor. It was the first time she had seen him wear shoes since they arrived.

  The once-chatty girl sat in silence, touching her battered face as if the pain fascinated her. Her silence bothered him. He would not be able to take her obedience for granted anymore. Unless he mitigated her pain somehow, she was a ticking time-bomb. (More like a stink-bomb: She wouldn’t be able to do much damage, but fuck! it would be irritating.)

  The repairs were finished except for the interior caulking when Monica decided she was ready to share.

  “Avery?” Her voice was frail.

  Rhodes was glad she couldn’t see him smile at hearing her say his name. “Yes?”

  “Are you really gonna kill us both if Heather tries to escape again?”

  “You mean, if either of you try to escape again,” he corrected her. “Yes, I am. Slowly.”

  “How?”

  Rhodes shrugged. “It depends on my mood.” He scraped at a stray glob of caulk with his fingernail.

  “You know she’s gonna try again,” Monica said. “She won’t stop until she’s dead.” She clutched her robe over her belly.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” He glanced at her. “She’ll do anything to protect you now. You’re all she has left!” he added melodramatically. Frowning, he turned back to her. “I’m surprised you would say that, Moné-sha. It’s almost as if you’re turning on her.”

  She sat in silence, avoiding his gaze. Swallowing hard, she whispered, “I’m pregnant.”

  “I know.” He returned his attention back to the caulk.

  She was taken aback by his apathetic tone. “It’s yours.”

  Rhodes leaned back and groaned. “No, it’s not.”

  “How d’you know?”

  He snorted at her immature tone. “Vasectomy.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t argue with that. Sniffling, she fidgeted with the hem of her robe. “Do you have any kids?”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t want any?”

  The muscles in his neck tensed. “Why the fuck would I want to bring a child into this world?”

  His back was still to her. Perhaps if she had seen the expression on his face, she would not have continued. “Did you have a rough childhood?”

  He barked a bitter laugh.

  “That explains a lot,” she muttered.

  “Does it?” He turned on her, throwing the caulking gun to the ground. “Please enlighten me with your Freudian psycho-babble!”

  “I—I’m sorry!” Her eyes shot wide. “I di—didn’t—”

  “No, you didn’t.” There was no use allowing her to continue digging the hole deeper. He retrieved the caulking gun. He defused as he devoted his full attention to putting the finishing touches on the window.

  “Don’t tell Heather,” Monica said in a small voice.

  “Why not?” He turned. Her sudden change in allegiance stirred his curiosity.

  “She’ll see it as a reason to escape.”

  “She’ll get you both killed,” Rhodes told her. “All three of you, in fact.”

  “You would still kill me—pregnant?”

  “You betcha.”

  Monica struggled to find words. Her lips trembled. “You can’t… find it in your h—heart to… to have a little mercy?”

  Rhodes leaned close, eye-level with the beaten girl. “Look at me.” He pointed to his face. “I am having mercy.”

  She sat in a stunned silence, absorbing this as Rhodes gathered his tools into a bucket. He carried it into the hallway and dropped it by the door. The sound made her jump. She found her voice again.

  “I—I just thought—”

  “Don’t think, Moné-sha!” he called. “You’re just going to get your hopes up. Now…”—he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt—“come take a shower with me.”

  61

  Rhodes was shocked to find Heather standing—shocked she was capable of standing. Her body was pressed against the window, staring at something just within view. She didn’t appear to have heard him come in, even though he had not attempted to muffle his entry. He padded toward her now, hearing her murmur, but not catching her words.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she acknowledged his presence by turning to him. Her eyes were wild, fully-dilated. “You have to go get
Z.” Her appearance was as stunning as it was alarming, and her request was so unexpected, it took him a moment to register her demanding tone.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Z,” she said as if reminding him of the boy’s former existence, “Zachariah.” She obviously had not caught the real reason he was asking. “You have to go get him. Put him somewhere safe.”

  Pursing his lips, he reminded himself the girl was under the influence of opioids. (High as a kite.) “Why is that?”

  She pointed out the window. “Crows,” she told him. “He’s being eaten by crows. It won’t do.”

  Rhodes’s stomach clenched. He sniffed, forcing away the revulsion that rose in his chest. “He knew the risks of attempting to escape.”

  “Not this, Avery.” She shook her head. “Not this.”

  Swallowing hard, he nodded. He couldn’t trust his voice enough to respond.

  “You don’t have to do it,” she proposed. “I’ll do it.”

  “You’ll do what?” He managed to keep his tone steady.

  “Move him somewhere safe. Bury him.” She shrugged. “What am I allowed to do?”

  Rhodes tilted his head. She could not possibly be so dissociated, but standing before him was no longer the bitter monster he had created, but the unassuming student with only a budding concept of her own capabilities. When he answered, he measured his words:

  “You’re allowed to get back into bed, and sleep off your high.”

  “Oh.” She stared at him, unable to process his refusal. “So… you’ll do it?”

  His brow furrowed. He planned on moving the body, but he wasn’t ready yet. The thought of seeing that face again made his chest hurt. “What will you give me?” She recoiled from the question. “What could you possibly offer that I can’t take?”

  She glanced around, as if the answer were painted across the walls. “Cookies,” she replied in a shy voice.

  Rhodes followed the path of her gaze for some clue as to what could have brought her to that conclusion. He must have heard her wrong. “Cookies?”

  Heather’s head bobbled.

  “Is that code for something unspeakably dirty?”

  “No, I mean cookies. Sugar, flour, eggs. You know, cookies?”

  “Yes, yes, I know what the fuck a cookie is.”

  “I make the best cookies in Atlanta.”

  “According to whom?”

  Her eyes lit up. “My mom.”

  Rhodes opened his mouth to say something particularly crushing, but stopped himself. (Isn’t that against the point of Sabbatical? I’m supposed to say anything I fucking want!) There are some lines even he wouldn’t cross. As he stared at her, the idea wore on him. He wasn’t one for sweets, but those bright eyes made him hungry.

  Nodding, he clapped his hands together. “OK,” he said more to himself than to her. “OK, cookies. I can get excited about some cookies.” She was staring up at him, unblinking, waiting. “I guess I’m going to move a body.” Shaking his head, he added, “And you’re going back to sleep, because you’re creeping me the fuck out.”

  62

  Yellow jackets had already started to nest in the gaping crevice across the boy’s throat. The crows were dauntless until Rhodes waved them off. They perched in the trees, crying scornfully. The past several days had been muggy and sunless. If it had been sunny, the corpse would have looked quite different.

  Perhaps that would have made this easier.

  This Sabbatical was becoming nothing short of catastrophic. Once more, Rhodes attempted to swallow the lump that had formed when Heather pointed out the crows, but it refused to go down. He wasn’t accustomed to struggling with his emotions. It made his face burn.

  He hadn’t possibly enjoyed the boy enough to justify this, so what was it? He refused to think of the obvious reason.

  Rhodes rounded the house to pull a tarp from his Jeep. To return, he followed the same path as their escape attempt. Rhodes had no desire to kill the boy when he did; They had forced his hand. He only had seconds to weigh Z against Heather: they both defied him, challenged him, amused him. They had both been on the fence and within reach. While his heart was racing and his feet pounding the ground, the deciding factor had been a simple, fleeting image: Heather laughing on the floor.

  Z had to die.

  Rolling the body into the tarp, Rhodes argued the case with himself. He twisted the tarp quickly so the yellow jackets would not escape in his direction and dragged this burden around the house. A sunroom had been built on to the back, looking distinctly un-Antebellum. Under normal circumstances, it would have been inviting, but Rhodes had not bothered to re-wire the dangling ceiling fan. Instead, he piled the room floor-to-ceiling with old tires he had scavenged, and used it as a dumping ground for his mounting number of corpses.

  Rhodes opened the patio and was bowled over by the smell. He threw open the tarp and hid behind the door until the yellow jackets dispersed. Bending over and holding his breath to keep from heaving, he realized he would have been better off with the wasps: The hot and muggy atmosphere had accelerated the rate of decay. The vagabond, hidden opposite a mountain of tires, was already turning to slime. Witt was disfigured beyond recognition. Rhodes had stabbed several holes into his torso to prevent swelling, but it hadn’t been entirely successful. He should have gotten his face as well: the cheeks and mouth had swelled like a gruesome balloon.

  As soon as the yellow jackets were out of sight, Rhodes grabbed the tarp and pulled it in. He laid the boy out next to Witt, spreading the tarp to cover Witt’s body. Rhodes no longer had any interest in him or his memories. (He was pathetic then and he is pathetic now…

  … just like Z.)

  Rhodes pulled out his hunting knife. Straddling the body, he sat on its torso. He ran a hand over the abdomen, measuring the ribcage. He punched the knife in between the ribs to vent. The force gave Rhodes the illusion the body was flinching.

  His throat grew tight. He was grateful the boy’s green eyes had been plucked out. A few stray ants worked at cleaning the sockets. Swallowing, Rhodes reached in and crushed the ants into the tissue. He took the boy’s face in his hand and stroked his high cheekbones, the line of his jaw. (He was so beautiful. He had been a heart-breaking boy. He would have been a heart-breaking man, just like…) He swallowed the rest of his thought, his stomach twisting.

  “They were young…” Rhodes muttered to himself. “They were too young…” (Bodies of men and women, minds still verging on children.) “Next time, I won’t make the same mistake. Next time…”

  He closed his eyes and tried to form an image of what he could do next time to avoid the mistakes he made this time. The only image he could conjure is Heather glaring at him as she kissed Z’s shoulder.

  Does love make it different? Better?

  Yes.

  You’re just saying that.

  The fact you didn’t already know that is sad.

  Rhodes forced his open again. The hollow-eyed face stared up at him. That dead face. That face, dead again. Screaming, Rhodes slashed at it, cutting down to the bone, loosening long swaths of flesh. When there was little left to mutilate, he slumped over. Sliding off the boy, he leaned against a pile of tires and panted for breath.

  The heat was suffocating him. It was the heat, not the memories. Not smiling green eyes and a crisp class-B Army uniform.

  Still struggling for air, he pulled himself up from the pile of tires and stumbled into the air conditioned house. The cool air helped clear his head. On unstable legs, he ascended the stairs. Chunks of meat clung to his skin. He could taste spoiled blood in his mouth.

  (These better be some good fucking cookies.)

  63

  The ceiling was moving, as if millions of white ants were marching over it, imperceptible individually, but pulsing en masse. Heather stared up at them from the bed, trying to discern just one, until Rhodes returned. She didn’t acknowledge him, but he brought with him the smell of death. He stood in the mouth of the hall, o
bserving her. When he saw she was still breathing, he disappeared. The shower cut on in the bathroom, and the ants swarmed to the sound of Rhodes moving under the water.

  “You still smell like death,” she told him when he returned to stand by the bed.

  “And you’re still as high as a kite.”

  “Mr. Kite?”

  “If that benefits you.”

  She grinned—a horrific effect in combination with her wide, unblinking eyes. Rhodes pulled the towel from his waist and threw it over her face. She raised her hands to remove it. He straddled her hips and pulled it around her head. He could strangle her—easily. She placed her hands on his arms. There was no force behind the gesture, but her hands were like fire on his skin. When he pulled the towel away and she was still staring into his dark eyes, she sighed.

  He took her wrist and found the radial artery. The dose he had given her would be dangerously high for her weight. Her pulse was thready. “How are you feeling?”

  “Loopy.”

  “That’s normal.” He pressed one of the letters carved into her chest. “Can you feel that?”

  “Yes.”

  Her unflinching expression made him frown. “Does it hurt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sighing, he ran his hands over her hair. She closed her eyes. He would have thought she looked peaceful, if she didn’t look so dead. Perhaps now, stoned and dissociative, she would answer the one question she had refused to answer.

  “Tell me something, little rabbit,” he asked. “Was Z your first? Zachariah?”

  Heather didn’t open her eyes, but put a finger to her lips. “Don’t,” she murmured. “That hurts.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t reply. She had finally fallen asleep.

  64

  When Heather woke under Rhodes’s arm, she pulled away in alarm. The sunlight was streaming through the window. Rhodes took a sharp breath and rolled over.

  “What day is it?” She gazed out the window.