by J.J. Mainor
Chapter 8
The afternoon sun broadcast the final hours of afternoon. Thanks to the summer, the light would survive well into the evening. But Gunner had taken so long to reach the shack, if his brother were not here, a continued search would have to wait for morning. That prospect kept him frozen, mere feet from the door.
The building, if you could call it that, was tiny. The walls were nothing more than thin sheets of plywood, chipping and peeling from age. A number of holes looked to have been patched over with wood scraps rather recently. A single window on one side had long been broken out and covered over with a sheet of plastic that would flap in the slightest breeze. The exposed tarpaper indicated that there were once shingles on the roof. And the door hung precariously on its hinges. No telling how many times it had broken free and been rehung.
Out of caution, Gunner drew his gun and reached for the door. He opened it a crack, peering inside, hoping to learn if the killer was inside. Unfortunately, the sun’s light did not penetrate the walls, and misfortune had the window on the east side. He could not wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He grabbed the door and flung it open. Sure enough, it broke from its hinges, crashing to the ground, and crumbled into a pile of useless wood scraps. The thing had been in even worse shape than it looked.
But with the door gone, the daylight broke inside, unmasking the ugliness of the killer’s existence. The mess was just as Gunner remembered. That log survived as a table, only now it had more empty cans resting on it, along with a candle, already burned down to a nub. The pile of blankets still rest beside it, this time bigger.
Then the smells hit him all at once. The empty cans scented the room with the rotten remains of whatever they once held. The mold staining the walls exuded an unpleasant mustiness. Even the sweat and filth of the killer’s clothes stained the air despite their absence. Gunner tried to shield his senses with his shirt, though he didn’t think anything could filter the decay from the air.
Despite the stench, Gunner couldn’t remove his eyes from the pile of blankets. They weren’t simply mounded on one another, they were covering something, or someone.
He aimed his gun. Had he caught the killer napping? If so, this could be his chance for justice. He inched closer, kicking the end of the pile. It moved, only slightly, but it moved. There was a person under it!
“Get up,” he commanded. No response came from beneath the blankets. It seemed like a trap, but he wasn’t going to let the killer lure him closer. He aimed to the roof and fired a shot. “I said get up!”
Again there was no response. The smart thing would have been to fire into the blankets, but something in the back of his mind stopped him. He wanted to see the bastard who took his brother’s life. He needed to see this monster’s face before ending him.
Yet the killer wasn’t budging. Stuck in a sort of stand-off, Gunner needed a plan. He backed slowly out of the structure, keeping his gun trained on the blankets. Still watching, he squatted down by the fractured door and took up a length of board. Then he crept back inside.
With one hand holding the gun steady, he used the board to peel the blankets from this individual. The first blanket revealed only the top of the head, covered with a filthy, mangy mass of hair.
Still there was no movement.
Gunner peeled away the second blanket. The figure was mostly visible now, though turned almost onto its front so the face was hidden. His clothes filthy and torn beyond recognition, yet they were familiar. Too familiar perhaps.
Gunner knelt cautiously over the figure. He set the board onto the floor and reached for the shoulder. He kept the gun aimed, not letting his guard down while he slowly rolled the person onto his back. Though the face was hidden beneath a short, scraggly beard, he recognized it.
“Greg!”
Somehow his brother was alive, if barely. Or was he just out - asleep or unconscious? Gunner shook him, bringing the eyes slowly open into consciousness. They were not the bright eyes, he once knew, full of youthful optimism, shining for a long future. These eyes were dark, extinguished of the lively young man they once belonged to. The only promising sign they offered was eventual recognition of the brother kneeling over them.
Gunner nearly wept, but his joy had to be tempered. He was still in the killer’s (could he think of this monster as a killer now?) home. He helped Greg to his feet, keeping him on his shoulder for support. Then juggling his brother and the gun, he took the radio from his pocket. The guys had to know the good news.
“Zach, Reese, I found Greg! Hear me? I found Greg!”
Though Greg was weak, and he hobbled along with Gunner’s help, the brothers made good time. The setting sun dimmed the light on this day. He didn’t expect he would have needed a flashlight. Fortunately a near full moon heralded the start of the night. Still low in the sky, its light remained strong enough to soften the darkness and show Gunner the way back to camp.
Slow though they were, the brothers managed to beat their friends back. Kimberly was nowhere to be seen and it was assumed she was still resting in her tent. Her illness must have been worse than they thought. “Kimberly,” Gunner called as he helped Greg through the camp. He couldn’t stop to wake her. Greg was his concern. She would have to be Reese’s.
They pushed through the brush and trees, finally reaching the van. Gunner brought his brother to the passenger’s side. He opened the front door and help Greg into the seat. Before he could close the door, the light from the interior illuminated a new problem: the front tire was flat.
Gunner cursed his bad fortune, though in perspective the balance remained in his favor. He could change the tire, but first had to move the van onto the harder surface of the dirt road. The ground where he parked was too soft for the jack. Circling his van, however, delivered the next piece of bad news: the driver’s side tire was also flat.
It could not have been a coincidence. Gunner dug through the mess of tools and equipment that remained in the back to find a flashlight. Better sight revealed the two inch gash in the rubber. There was no mistaking this. Someone had slashed his tires, and with a rather large knife. All doubt melted away. The killer knew they were back and he meant for them to stay.