such a religious man?”
“Doing what? Keeping and tending animals? Get to
the point, Douglas.”
“What is he, Mr. Solow?”
Solow drank again. “Can you understand it? Can you
grasp what I have done with no thought? You are a father.
What would you do if you had a child with Downs
Syndrome? Put them in that home in Dwight and forget
them? Would you do your damnest to keep them close and
care for them? It’s a sad thing when one creates something
the world can do without. But no God fearin’ man would
hate their own kinfolk. That’s just asinine.”
“Your son? How?”
“No one is perfect, Douglas. I’m sorry for all of this,
but the will of God goes as it must. You see, I used to think
God was making me serve a penance for my past sins. The Catholics are good for that, but us Fundamentalists, we know
that’s hogwash.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus died for our sins. However, I wrestle if I was
earnest enough in my confession for my transgressions.” “I don’t follow you.”
“I used to think the Voodoo priestess I banged in
New Orleans way back when cursed me. She died when I was
on top of her. Freak thing, ya know? I used to blame the
affair I had in the fifties with the Indian Shaman’s wife, but I
wasn’t exclusive to her privates. Hell, that Shaman was
shootin’ blanks. All of her kids came from others, or so I
reckon. I know he got the electric chair for strangling her
back just before Kennedy got assassinated. Always wondered
if that was bad karma, but the blood of Jesus is supposed to
trump all that, right?”
“Mr. Solow…”
“Heck, I used to wonder if God was pissed that I
used to love to get a gal in the backside. That was against his
laws major, you know? Maybe it was the test on the USS
Eldridge, who knows? Though no scientist, I reckon it had
something to do with me crossing up with Luella, my half
sister. Paying off the sins of drunken stupidity, that’s a good
mantra, as the hippies call it. It was an accident, a freak
happening, and she is poisoned by the curse of my evil or the
twisted means of bad science.”
“All right. But it’s loose. How did it happen?” “Got ahold of a snatch full of bad drugs, I wager. It’s
a long story you don’t want to hear, son, but suffice it to say,
I reckon he’ll be back in time.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He’s threatened and feels those close to home were
threatened. It’s all about blood and family, Douglas. Yours,
mine, and ours.”
“I see.”
“Are you going to take me away?”
Douglas stood up. “I don’t know what to do with
you, to be honest. You ought to feel great, all of those dead
people on your mind.”
“I feel nothing of the sort, Douglas. The world is full
of predators and prey. Those people are weak. The weak
deserve what they get. Hawg is strong. He’ll come home
someday.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Solow nodded. “That’s your job, Sheriff.”
“Hawg killed Luella. How’s that make you feel?” The old man swallowed. “It was her time.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Primed
Hawg kept his velocity fixed, and straight on down the edge of Route 66. His claws and hooves took better to the earth near the ditches, aiding in his long strides. The paved road was a place for machines and men who were slaves to them. Hawg loved the earth, deep and pure. It would help him to reach his goal.
He also hungered for the fool on the bike, meat in general, and more gilt. Though the run through the country winded him, Hawg learned so much about himself. His endurance seemed to grow the longer he ran. Never before had Hawg experienced such independence. His tempo, ever balanced, seemed to be less tiring the longer he ran, so Hawg kept to it.
The walls of the town loomed again and Hawg felt fear inside his stomach. He hated town and all of its fences, walls and rattling noise. It was better to be close to the earth. Soon, he would be back home with family and his own blood. After this fool died, it would be as it was in years past, only better.
Hawg saw the biker grin when he looked over his shoulder. The fool really thought he could escape him or trick him into something dire. Hawg knew better. Hawg could smell the biker’s fear, big enough to walk over a lake on.
His own terror subsided as they trekked down 66 as it snaked through the edges of Miller’s Fork. The side of the road offered him great cover and few even noted him until they’d passed by. Hawg heard a few wheels screech and then the crash of metal and glass. He continued on, nearing what smelled like a sewage disposal plant on the cracking Route.
A man on a bicycle crossed the highway and aimed straight at Hawg. Never slackening his pace, Hawg charged on, braining the rider with a swipe of his right claw. The bike rolled a bit as the rider fell, dead by the side of the road.
Hawg carried on, hungry and burning inside. If he didn’t slay and eat the balls of this idiot, it was really of no matter. Hawg had plenty of time. His mouth turned up in what passed for a smile.
Unlike Hawg, humans couldn’t live forever…
***
“This little piggy went to market…” Andrew said to himself and smiled as he twisted the last wire on the end of his hand held trigger. He lay this on the head of the right side coffin. He looked in each sepulcher, noted the rows of plastic explosives wired together, the bottles of nitro and the dynamite primed and ready. Curious if the conglomeration would have the whiplash effect he planned, Andrew gazed down as he stepped forward, seeing the wire across the entrance to the tomb. Above the floor several inches, the trip wire held the initial trigger. He looped up a long line of cable and took the hand held trigger with him out the door. Carefully, he pushed the ruined gate open farther. “And that little piggy is gonna go wee, wee, wee all the fucking way home.”
He hated this moment, for now he had to wait on Hux. There wasn’t much to do save to kill time. Andrew put down the gripper and walked halfway to his truck.
Andrew walked over to his father’s grave. The wild flowers left by Jordan and Cassidy made him smile.
“Well, pa, here’s to you. Zero hour and the battle is ready to be fought.” Overheard, a plane zoomed and slanted. He hadn’t seen many of the crews out searching around since the disaster at Ambrose Brothers. Most of the cops and helicopters were focused on Miller’s Fork and the areas near to it. Eyes down, he said, “Wish me luck, dad. Be seeing you soon.”
Andrew thought of the war and death his father experienced. It was nothing like he had planned out today, of course. “You being the hero made me into a collector?” Andrew said to the wind. “Probably, but who fucking cares? I’m comfortable with who I am.” He looked toward Miller’s Fork and heard the thump of chopper blades. “I guess.”
He saw a looming statue of Jesus over by the bushes. He’d seen it before, many times, but walked over to it, hands on his hips.
“Well, just you and me Lord, huh? What have you got in store for me this afternoon? Do I get to see you face to face or not?”
Fear tripped up Andrew’s arms and settled on his head when he heard a dull moan from the statue. His fear faded as he looked down, seeing a pair of eyes glaring at him from the weeds just under the brush.
Remembering his guns were back in the truck, Andrew swallowed hard and said, “Who is it?”
Again, came a tearful moan.
Down to his haunches, Andrew pulled the bushes apart.
/>
The face was brutal, bruised, covered with dried mud and probably blood. The eyes never blinked and glowed under the greasy strains of butterscotch colored hair that dangled in her face.
“I won’t hurt you,” Andrew said gently. “Everything is all right.”
He lied, for as she unfolded from the bushes, and he saw her ruined flesh, Andrew felt like a big fibber. They were leading the thing that did this to her back to this location.
She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her face. Perhaps one of the TEMPS at work in the previous summer. So many came and went, he couldn’t get a handle on them. This one had a cross tattooed on her backside above her asscrack…three of them in fact, like Calvary.
“Micki?” Andrew said and her eyes burst into tears.
***
Hux slowed going through the edge of town. He checked over his shoulder many times, worried Hawg would catch him. Visions of the beast ripping him to pieces, leaving him alive as he ate him like Mr. Roberts, tugged at the edges of Hux’s coke fueled mind. Still, the thrill of the chase buoyed him on.
He thought of the guns on his body and the knives in his boots. He’d never go down without a fight. Hux promised himself he’d die fighting that thing. It had to die. It had to leave this earth, badly. Hux wanted to hear it scream in pain.
Hux kept those things at bay in his mind as he plotted his escape from Miller’s Fork. After this thing was dead, he’d get gone fast. He’d go to his storage places, get his cache of cash, sneak into his house, gather what he treasured and hit the road. First, he would go to the Sturgis area as friends there would hide him. Then, across the Badlands to more friends, maybe in Sparks, Nevada.
Still, the angst inside twisted at him. He would try to drink or to smoke it away, but the death of the creature had to be the exorcism for it. For what it had done to him, for the violation and the twisted feelings all over his body, Hawg had to die at his hand. On the seat, his ass ached, a reminder of Hawg’s touch. Ever since, his manhood refused to randomly stiffen. His mind was elsewhere, not on trim or booze, but on that feeling. Hawg’s death would bring it all back.
***
Mr. Solow hadn’t felt like cooking, so he microwaved some leftover pork chops. He lamented that a dinner of soda pop, pork chops, bread and potato chips wasn’t the healthiest spread on earth, but he was long since past worrying over his health. A diet wasn’t in his future plans.
He showered, donned fresh clothes and poured himself a glass of homemade wine. Though never one to get really drunk, Mr. Solow enjoyed the nightly drink. It put him in the mood for sleep.
Eyes on the afternoon paper, he grimaced. Though the paper went to press too late to include the morning slaughter at Ambrose Brothers, the paper contained stories about the bodies found the night before at the tavern and at the corner of his property. His head felt hot as he read the lines, but no word of a monster made the papers. Many thought it was the work of a gang, probably over drugs. Alex’s death was mentioned, but its details proved vague and unclear if he died with the bikers…just that he was killed.
“People talk,” he mumbled, and knew survivors at Ambrose Brothers would tell the tale. Would they be believed? He didn’t care. There was no connection to him. His words to Sheriff White? “Who listens to crazy old men?”
He folded the paper over and dropped it beside the couch. Solow scanned his wall of tapes and settled in on a topic. He inserted the tape in the stereo, refilled his wine glass and sat down.
“I’m glad that you all came out on this fine spring evening.
This week, we remember the passion, the death, and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. If you don’t know him as your savior, if you have never experienced his powerful love, then you will before I am through this evening. Love is a powerful thing, but sometimes one forgets one’s true love. I heard of a man in Texas who didn’t kiss his wife for ten years, and then shot a man who did.” There was a pause as laughter rolled in the stadium.
There was a knock on the screen door and Solow recognized Elias’ touch. The old man entered, unbidden, and poured himself some wine in a coffee mug.
“Thanks for joining me,” Mr. Solow said as he offered to refill the mug Elias had drained fast.
“No sir, just one for me. I got to keep a clear head.”
“Oh?”
“I think tonight’s the night.”
Solow nodded. “Praise the Lord.”
“This is my personal Bible that I use when writing my sermons. I received it from a Chaplin when I was in Vietnam. As you can see, both of us have seen better days. I don’t use this Bible any longer when I preach for the lettering is very small. I have reached the age when curiosity is greater than vanity. But I do use this particular Bible to find things fast. This book is well worn, well thumbed, full of underlines and notes in the margins. This is the book that responds to the touch of my fingers, for the pages roll almost immediately to the book, chapter and verse I’m trying to locate. Although it’s worn out and beat up, it’s still good. Still very good. But is the word of God still good and relevant in America today? The same thing that was wrong in this world two thousand years ago is still wrong with this planet today. The thing that was wrong seven thousand years ago is still wrong with this world in Chicago, Illinois. It is sin! The equivalent factor that coiled up in the garden and made Eve fall from grace is the same thing that makes a young man shoot his fellow students today! It is what makes a mother drown her children, it is what makes a father cheat on his wife and bring home AIDS. It is what makes children turn to darkness and away from light. It is sin and it still flows from the original source—from the prince of darkness himself.”
***
Doug was outside the office of the chief of police when Reverend Wingler caught up to him. Unable to escape in his car fast enough, Doug stood touching the car like it was the nirvana and he drew strength from its avenue of escape.
“I know you are a busy man, Sheriff,” Wingler said, face terse and eyes in full brimstone pulpit threat mode. “Any word on my daughter?”
“We have no report’s of Micki or any sightings of her. The troopers and volunteers are combing the countryside and all avenues will be pursued.”
Teeth barely able to part, Reverend Wingler snapped, “I don’t think she’s dead, Sheriff. She’s probably passed out in the house of one of those biker bastards you refuse to lock up.”
“One has to commit a crime to be locked up,
Reverend.”
“Mr. White, Sheriff, you have always been an amiable
enough fellow,” his tone softened, but Doug sensed the viper
ready to strike. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you
are turning a blind eye to the drug trade in this town.” Hand on his car becoming a fist, Doug replied, “Is
that so? That’s a serious accusation, sir, beyond worry over
your daughter. Micki has a juvie record longer than both of
my arms, and how many times have I returned her to you,
drunk, behind the wheel, and not charged her?”
Wingler grimaced. “Yes, I know…”
“I can bend so far, sir, and try to be a good man. But
we are doing all we can to find her. I have my hands full
today, but rest assured, sir, I will do my best to find her.” “It’s that damnable Huxtable, he’s the culprit.”
Wingler said with cinders in his words. “She is obsessed with
that man, far too old for her. He has her hooked on
something, keeps her coming back.”
Doug nodded. “Hux is a bad man and is also wanted
for questioning. I’ll get him today.”
“I heard tell of a beast on the loose, a giant pig-man.
How preposterous is that?”
Doug shrugged. “I’ve not seen any such thing.” “But some have, and they have believed.”
“Sometimes, folks want to believe really bad. The
worse it is, the more they want it to be so.”
Wingler was about to speak when a city cruiser pulled
up and shouted at Doug, “Sheriff! Trouble at Bob & Jodi’s
Tavern uptown!”
“That’s news?” Doug retorted. “Can’t you handle it?” “You better come along.”
Doug looked at the minister and said, “Gotta go,
Reverend.”
“I’ll pray for you,” Wingler said flatly.
Doug turned the key in his ignition and said, “I need
it.”
Not bothering to be coy about his arrival, Doug
turned on his cherries and parked in the street outside the line
of parked cars. Out in the open air, he donned his hat and
could hear the ravings filtering out of the open door. “This shit is getting better and better,” he muttered
and delivered the city cops tart looks as he walked to the
door.
Bob & Jodi’s was an establishment frequented by
younger drinkers in Miller’s Fork. Older folks went down the
street to Sherman’s or to the country and western
establishment Woody’s; druggies and folks of color to Sadie’s
down the other way by the dry cleaners, bikers to the Green Parrot on the edge of town, respectable folks to the Pub near
the library.
The bar ran along the left wall of the tavern while the
right side held numerous small tables better for standing at
than sitting. Various stuffed heads of elk, deer and other
critters lined the wall out of reach. They didn’t fit with the
clientele, but the owner, Bob Fanchie, was too lazy to take
them down. Bob was Andrew’s age and Doug was acquainted
with him from various arrests at the tavern. Fanchie stood
behind the bar, hands on the counter and nodded at the man
on the floor clinging to the CD jukebox.
Fanchie said, “Gopher came in after they let them out
of work, got plowed on gin and shots. No different than any
other day, other than today he started fights and mouthed off
too much. Now, well, I didn’t know what else to do. This
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