Roberts screamed at Hux, “Shoot it! For chrissake! Shoot!”
Hawg looked down at the bloody man and his nostrils widened. Spit fell in droplets from his maw just before Hawg lowered his head. Hawg bolted forward fast, sinking his teeth in Roberts’ ankle. By the cracking sound in the air, Hux expected the appendage to come off, but Hawg wrenched his head back to the side, moving Roberts body a yard in the gravel. One claw down on Robert’s knee for leverage, the creature made a move at Hux. The biker stepped back into the cabin and slammed the door shut. He heard the knee break and Roberts’s scream out just before the door shut. Hawg’s weight slammed into the door, but it held. Hux quickly dropped a bar over the door. He fired through the door with each gun, doing a mock gunslinger action from gun to gun.
Hawg never impacted on the door again, but Hux could hear him rage outside. The cry wasn’t one of pain. Hux banked on frustration and also gambled the beast would turn back to Roberts. By the screams out of the man from Cicero, Hux was correct.
Hux slid up the side window by the toilet and dived out, head first. He hoped his timing was good as he slammed himself into the side of the cabin. Roberts’ screams became worse and Hux bolted for the boat. He didn’t want to check back, but he had to reassure himself that Hawg was busy enough. If he wasn’t, he prayed the guns would do the job this time.
Boots in the boat, Hux nearly capsized the tiny vessel as he sat down. Guns still in his hands, he saw that Hawg went to work on Roberts and the drug dealer was still alive…but Hux didn’t understand how. Hawg’s left knee pinned one of Robert’s legs down while he’d split open his guts with his tusks. Hawg had the long intestines out and found it difficult to dislodge them from his tusks. All the while, Roberts screamed in agony, his insides up and out for him to see, his other leg broken and bent backwards.
While the screams kept going, Hux said,” Die, already, fer God’s sake, die!”
Hux put down the guns and yanked the cord on the engine. It failed to start, but Hux yanked a few more times. Again, no life from the engine. He grabbed up the oars and started to row like mad. He was about a quarter of the way across when Roberts stopped screaming.
Hawg stood up, chewing, and swiping the guts away from their entanglement. Still sucking air, the creature seemed vexed. Hux kept rowing as the beast sliced down with its claws and then dropped to rut in the gaping flesh of the drug dealer. Thankful of its hunger, Hux glanced over his shoulder at his bike. God, it looked beautiful. He had to reach it. He pulled on the engine cord and it barked to life. Hux practically came as he directed the boat forward.
Halfway to his target, Hux saw Hawg stand again. He never wiped the grisly dinner from his mouth or face. He squared his shoulders toward Hux and…smiled?!
Hux felt pressure on his bladder as he pressed on quickly, confident he’d make it, but uneasy at the horrific sight all the same.
When Hawg plunged into the water and started to swim faster than before, Hux nearly pissed his pants at the sight. As he started to row to supplement the craft’s speed, he recalled reading that during Hurricane Katrina that no hogs had died on farms, that they swam to higher ground.
Hux was near to the edge when he dropped the oars, reached down, grabbed his gun and fired at Hawg a few times. The bullets never came close, but they made the creature pause. Hux heaved on, and pushed the boat back to the shore. He grabbed up both guns, tripped and fell on his face on the rocky edge. He rolled and fired blind at the direction of Hawg. He lost Roberts pistol in the roll, but got to his feet and faltered in his steps to his bike.
Leg over his Harley, Hux saw Hawg nearing the edge of the quarry. He fired up the engine and smiled, feeling safe at last.
Hawg climbed out of the water, but never made a line toward him. Instead, the creature grabbed the front of the small boat. Hux filled with fear and twisted the throttle. His back tire swung on the rocky surface as he turned to go. Sure enough, Hawg slung the boat at him. The exploit was awkward, close to a side arm volley, but it nearly hit him head on. The glancing shot struck his rear tire. Hux fishtailed and almost lost control. A rider for years, he quickly recovered and headed out.
In his mirrors, Hawg was coming for him.
Hux turned and headed toward Route 66.
***
Mr. Solow held a fence post as Elias twisted wire around the metal loop imbedded in its top. Perspiration sprang on Elias’ face as he worked the mesh around the pole, making certain it was secure. Elias looked at Mr. Solow as the Sheriff’s car drove onto the gravel lane of the main house. Mr. Solow didn’t turn to face him, though, only focusing at the post. Soon, he looked at the round barn near where they worked, then at the space where no pasture had ever existed.
“Make sure this is secure, Elias,” Solow told him, fishing a red handkerchief from his overall’s side pocket. He stepped away from the pen, erected around the western edge of the round barn and waved to Doug White.
“Mr. Solow, I need to speak with you,” Doug called out, not returning his wave.
Solow rubbed his face and then wiped his nose on the handkerchief. “Sure thing, sheriff. Since that brief talk Gowran had with Elias earlier, I thought this was over on our part.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I hope Gowran’s wife is all right.”
“Paula survived what happened in the plant,” Doug said coldly.
“That’s good.”
“We better go inside,” Doug said with a bitter voice, eyes on Elias.
With a nod, Solow started walking toward the house.
Once on the porch, Doug looked back to Elias and said to the farmer, “You need to hire younger help.”
“Elias is still a good man, Sheriff. Iced tea?”
“No, I’m good. I suppose getting rid of Elias would be like firing family, huh?” He followed the farmer into the living room and added, “But he isn’t quite family, is he?”
Solow groaned a bit as he sat down, and then sipped some tea he’d poured himself. “No, not quite family.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Family
Andrew sat in his truck, engine off. The minutes were nearly up as he spoke into Wilma’s phone.
“Jordan, Mommy will get you in a while. Daddy has some more things to do.”
“But I want you to come get me,” Jordan said, not quite pleading, but insisting.
“After a while, we’ll all be together. Just watch out for your little brother and your Mommy, for Daddy, all right?”
“Okay,” Jordan replied fast, but seemed to want to talk more. “Dad…”
“Yeah?”
“When will you be home? Will it be safe from the pigman? Are you going to kill it?”
Andrew swallowed and closed his eyes. He climbed out of his truck and said, “I’ll be home later, Jordan. I think we won’t have to worry on the pig-man any more after tonight.”
“Is Uncle Doug going to shoot him?”
Andrew couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe a lot worse. I’ll let you know. But remember what I said. Watch out for Kenny and Mommy, always.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Love you, Jordan.”
“Love you, too,” the boy said and the line went off.
Andrew called Hux again, but received no answer. He then squinted at the phone, seeing there was a text message from the biker.
ON THE WAY. COMING IN HOT.
“Some message,” Andrew mused, wondering how he texted him on the bike. “Carefully.”
Suddenly warm, he shed his flannel shirt and deposited it in the truck. Andrew took the wires, grips and extra explosives to the crypt. On the way, he could’ve sworn he smelled something, raw, primal and female.
“I need to drink more,” he chided himself. Andrew looked at the sun and judged they had a few hours of daylight left.
He stepped over the loose wire and climbed into the crypt.
***
The journey to Route 66 was less than a mile and Hux had to cross the railway line. His heart flipp
ed for a moment, afraid he’d be trapped at the warning lights. Luck was with him and he crossed over the tracks and stopped, awaiting Hawg.
The creature emerged on the high tracks, looking down at him on the Route. Though he could see the beast breathing, the creature didn’t appear winded.
“That’s a good bastard, keep coming,” Hux muttered, thumb working his phone.
Hawg didn’t make a straight bee line for Hux. Instead, he leapt into the ditch and made a guess where Hux would be driving.
Not expecting such a move, Hux dropped his phone and hit the throttle hard.
Hawg loomed on the roadside, parallel to him. Unable to grab the gun off hand, worried only to keep the bike steady, Hux held on for his life and kicked the bike in the ass. Their eyes met and the look of primal anger in Hawg stabbed into Hux’s mind. The bike accelerated, besting the beast. Hawg fell behind, but swiped at the rear tire of the cycle. Hux’s entire body felt like ice as the bump hit home. The blow glanced off and Hux started to thank God, something he seldom did. He checked over his shoulder and then checked his mirrors. Sure enough, the monster remained after him.
If he was successful, Hux promised God to get religious very soon.
Miller’s Fork appeared before them, spreading out with a trailer park on one side, a large recreation Complex for baseball diamonds, all in the back yard of the State Penitentiary. Hux didn’t know if the creature would follow him all the way past and a few more miles to the cemetery. Then again, he’d have never believed the creature would do what it did in the factory.
***
In small towns, word gets around fast. It didn’t take long for phone calls, text messages and camera phone shots of the dead to circulate, or in a few bad cases, end up online. Added to what happened at the Green parrot the night before, word went wild all over town.
While Porter Loring affected a fine clean up, the tales of the biker bar massacre and other deaths ran rampant. The city council stepped in as the Mayor couldn’t answer questions. The Chief of Police sought to quell fears and synchronize efforts with the State Police. The local National Guard Unit, put on notice earlier, was then called up for another night of searching.
Though the eyewitnesses from Ambrose Brothers swore the thing wasn’t human, the official word was it was a deranged maniac of some sort. The only images of Hawg that a few people got on their phones were too pixilated to be clear.
The chief of police soberly mentioned a few missing maniacs from Indiana that could be to blame. He named Wilbur Ferguson, the Mud Lick strangler, who’d escaped custody a year ago and was presumed dead in a car crash. He also alluded to Bubba Ray Armstrong, the Kirkwood, Missouri cannibal who escaped from a mental home months before.
Some accepted, but many knew the truth. What could they do with such knowledge, though? The story spread and many demanded action.
Reverend Wingler did what most ministers did during troubled times. He prayed. In this case, he prayed loudly near the flag outside Ambrose Brother’s rear entrance. Someone had lowered the flag to half-staff and a hundred people still hung around the parking area, many unsure of what to do, several stragglers from work refused to leave. The cameras from the Peoria and Bloomington News caught the scenes and that of Wingler showing up, swept back gray hair, looking pristine in his coal gray suit, as he stood under the flag and offered prayers.
Some of the most fervent drunks and drug users at the plant bowed their heads, dutifully following his powerful request.
“Let this not be business as usual in the case of tragedy,” Wingler stated in a loud voice. “We all find God at the same time, too late.”
No one objected to the prayers, not even the wannabe hippies and proud atheists in the bindery. Some of the older employees recalled when they were allowed to pray before potluck Christmas luncheons. That practice was forbidden in the name of diversity.
“We need to hold our loved ones tight to our hearts this night. Thank God they were spared from the evil of the Devil. The wiles of Satan are all over and have lulled us into a stupor, where once confronted with a minion of Hell, all we could do was fall. This land is full of such evil. God will judge America for the way it condones this pagan lifestyle. What else has America done to bring the judgment of God? We have put the god of self in front of the God of the highest Heaven. We have embraced all forms of sexual deviancy and hedonism for which God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. We have become a secular humanist cesspool where nothing is right or wrong. We forget the words of God, much less the physical Word of God. We are losing this country to alcoholism, to drugs, prostitution, AIDS, and abortion. We are tortured by the sins of murder, rape, incest, and hate. Is there an answer for America? YES! It is not a government grant! It is not more classes, or sensitivity training! The solution for this nation is a return to the preaching of the Word of God! A return to the Word of God, where we learn of Jesus Christ, who was crucified for the redemption of your sins! A government grant cannot rid your life of the Devil, but the sacrificial blood of Jesus Christ can change your life, your mind, and the destiny of your eternal soul! This book is the two-edged sword of truth that convicts your dark heart! This book is what tells you how to live and why to live a good life. This book is Jesus Christ on paper, pure and simple! Who is Jesus Christ to you? Was he just a good guy? No, he was not! Some of you say he was a great spiritual leader. No, he was not! He didn’t claim to merely preach the truth but he claimed to be The Truth! He is either Lord, or a liar. If there is no absolute truth in your life, you are living a lie. If there is no absolute right or wrong, you are living a delusion. If some over-educated fool comes up and tells you there is no God, Jesus didn’t exist, or we came from apes… tell them that if ignorance could be sold by the pound, they could buy the universe!”
His voice rolled and his flaring eyes stabbed at the members of management that watched him with bleary eyes.
As Wingler went into the invitation, Karen Laurens suddenly screamed out in terror. Porter Loring held his arm around her and delivered the sad news about her husband. Wingler went on preaching and it added to the surreal picture as Karen sank to the pavement. The drama helped a few younger men take a knee by Reverend Wingler and to promise to dispense with their sins and take on the blood of Christ. Wingler gave sympathetic looks to the weeping Mrs. Laurens and her consoling friend, Annette Moyer. The preacher wasn’t aware that Ms. Moyer’s panties were still damp with the blood and semen from Lou Lauren, but it didn’t matter. They needed saved, dirty pants or no.
A car parked near where several police stood and an ambulance took on another body. The new arrival was Betty Sullivan, holding the hand of Jack Jr. She spoke with Porter Loring, nodded and turned her face from the crowd. She turned to look at the flag, then at Wingler. Betty had a single tear on the left side of her face. That was it. That was all there would be.
Already, human nature took over. A few of the men talked of who would get Earl Gamblin’s pressman job.
Brian Miller argued with the police insisting that a monster threw Jimmy Mans into the forks of his hoist.
The television crews bore witness to it all, filming many wild tales and testimonies.
***
Elias hummed a song as he poured kerosene on his burning pile. The spot where he dispatched trash items or old branches was an area of field tiles spread in a tiny mound. Several years of burning had never diminished the mound beyond its original state. A few bags of trash, some green wood now ready to go, and a few old shingles joined the object Elias held in his left hand. Once the fire blazed, he looked at the helmet one last time, read the inner writing that denoted it belonged to a man named DOUBLE D.
The helmet went on the fire.
***
“What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”
Doug’s gaze held steady on Mr. Solow as he gripped the band of his hat in his hands and asked, “Is Hawg from your place? What do you know about him?”
“That’s a direct question, I like that,” Mr. Solo
w chuckled. “You have a name for this escaped maniac now? Hawg? Radio said it is some Hoosier serial killer.”
“Oh, the chief has to tell folks something. He’s fulla shit. I like you, sir, and always have. I’ve known you my entire life. You and my Pa went way back. If he’d have ever talked ill of you, I’d have suspected you right away. But Pa liked you a great deal. You two were friends. That carries a lot with me.”
“Suspect me of what?” Solow asked, face blank. “I’ve been open about my farm and your boys have searched all of it for a clue to this fellow and his rampages.”
“Why didn’t he kill you?”
Solow took another drink. “Just lucky, I suppose.” “Wonder why he chose to lay in a crypt beside the
Solow one at the cemetery?”
“Ah, but not in the Solow one, son. You are fishing,
Douglas. I cannot blame you. You have your hands full and
the weight of the world on your ass.”
Doug’s face soured. “I can’t pin any of this to you, sir,
but I’m not stupid. Please don’t treat me as such and lie to
me. Be honest with me.”
Solow’s face grew grim. “I’m too old for prison,
young man. And you are right in that you cannot tie this
Hawg thing to me. I’m an old hog farmer, nothing more. On
the stand, I could get senile really fast. I could even spin a
great tale of how I was on board the USS Eldridge during
that famous Philadelphia Experiment. Ya know, I ain’t been
right since, or that is what I could say. I wonder what such
things as electromagnetic radiation and gravity tests do to
one’s DNA, huh? They’d think me crazy or a curiosity. I
don’t care what the lynch mob might say, you have no case
against me.”
“You are a religious man, right? I sure can’t stop by
for rhubarb and not hear a sermon from your tapes.” “What is your point?”
“How can you justify lying or doing this if you are
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