The Dark Trail

by Will Mosley

  When the program ended, a shampoo commercial came on. Tatem stood up, stretched, still stinking from the sweat and musk of work, and walked over to shut the TV off for the night. But as he neared the television, something happened. Frozen, he stared, not daring to look away for even a moment because his dreams were coming to fruition.

  In the middle of the commercial, the advertisement stopped on the same frame, blinked twice and the screen went blank for several seconds. Then, the opening credits to the Ally McBeal program started.

  Tatem's jaw hung loose. He wasn't ready to believe that this would be a new episode. It couldn't be. How often did television stations forgo commercials to air a new Ally McBeal episode? But he watched the credits, watched Ally's dainty smile light up numerous times throughout the opening credits until...

  He sat back on the sofa in awe. It was happening. But how? The beginnings of a question stirred in his mind, but this wasn't the time to ask questions. This was the time to enjoy what good fortune had come his way. Besides, the network might realize their error and remedy the problem with programming that wasn't Ally McBeal.

  At midnight, seven beer bottles neatly lined the coffee table like soldiers in brown uniforms with blue shirts. Tatem now laid on the sofa, glowing in the television's radiance, penis still in hand as he laughed, rubbed and watched his eighth consecutive episode of Ally McBeal. Good fortune, had at last, found him.

  Chapter 7.

  After dropping Billy off at home, Joe Corrigon decided that tonight would be one of those nights that he would see how the Dodge Charger would perform.

  He took a gentle right on Hill road with his head on a swivel searching for the reflective paint of police cruisers, driving carefully, using foreign devices like the turn signals when he passed other cars. But once he arrived at Mineral Springs Park and Angora road, he lowered the car to second gear, flipped on the left turn signal and shoved his boot onto the gas pedal. The action turned the car abruptly, angled him towards Angora road and the smoke from the wheels clouded anything behind him.

  Once the car was on a straight path, he shifted, pulling the gear shifter into third. The force of the car pressed him into his seat and pulled his hand away from the gear shifter as well. This caused the car to stay in third a moment too long, whining out the engine and maintaining a fifty mile per hour speed.

  “Oh shit!” He quickly and forcefully leaned up, depressed the clutch, pushed the shifter into fourth, released the clutch, and again was thrown back into his seat. This time, he grabbed the seat's sliding lever, leaned forward and, with his butt, pulled the seat with him. When it locked in place it was now too close to the steering wheel. But comfort wasn't his aim.

  Angora road was patrol car free this time of night and very few cars passed him on his way to the reservoir. It was a nice ride during the day, but at night the scenic beauty of back country Reading was veiled.

  He slowed from 134 mph to forty through the hairpin turns at Antietam reservoir, took a right back on to Hill road and drove two miles to his house.

  Since the house lights were still on inside, he turned the headlights off as he pulled into the driveway and could see Cindy chasing Joey and Zachery as a blurred shadow behind the living room curtains.

  He picked up his cell phone, searched through his recent calls for the number, found it and called.

  The phone rang twelve times before he answered.

  “What now, Corrigon?” The voice abruptly answered, harsh with an exaggerated irritation. In the background, Joe heard what sounded like men cheering, excitedly as if they'd found something of great importance.

  “Sorry to wake you, sir. It's –,”

  “I wasn't asleep.” He said and cleared his throat. “Get on with it.”

  “Yes. Well... What the hell are you doing over there? Sounds like you've got a party going on, sir. I can barely hear you.”

  “Uh,” The man fumbled with the phone, then Joe heard multiple mouse clicks. Then, “Dammit! Why won't this damn thing –,” The noise from the cheering men stopped. “There we go. It was nothing to concern yourself, Joseph. Just, checking on something.”

  “Oh. Well, I need more beer.”

  “More beer? You didn't call –,”

  “I did call him, sir, but I got no answer. I just need it before I go in tomorrow. That's the only reason I called you.” Joe lied.

  The man purposefully grunted. “You're at the same address, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He grunted again. Though the grunting made him sound upset, this was only Joe's second time calling him, and he figured that grunting and talking, to this guy, were one and the same. “I'll send someone over. Where do you want it?”

  “I'll leave the car unlocked. The keys will be under the driver's seat.”

  “Fine. It'll be there.”

  “Thank you –,” Joe said, but the line was dead. “Hello?” No answer. “Bastard.”

  In the passenger's seat lay the 40 caliber Glock in its holster. Joe smiled, picked it up and looked at it for a moment. “Bears.” He said with in condescending chuckle. “Who'd use a 40 cal on a bear?”

  Chapter 8.

  Though his face was draped by the darkness, Erica could feel the exhalation of his rancid breath stroking her ear lobe and neck, shuffling her hair as he snarled, and before she could act, his hand wrapped around her throat, lifted her from her feet, off the floor shoving her into the door frame. Instantly, she cringed as the bright flashes of a thousand stings ripped into her back flesh, igniting flames through her skin. Her hands scrambled to her back out of instinct. A desperate, helpless scream pushed from her lungs, but the hand at her throat was as constricting as it had been around her ankle, ceasing all air flow. Her mouth sucked at nothing, widening the walls of her throat as far as she could against the compression of his tightening fingers, wheezing as only sips of dank air were drawn into her lungs, reaching around herself to extinguish the fire running along her spine.

  “Why was this done to me?” He screamed. His face so close she could feel his radiant body heat. Perspiration dripped from his brow to her lips. She mouthed the words, 'Let me go,' but only the phrase,

  “Leh... me... goh...” slipped from her trembling lips with guttural force.

  “If I let you go, you will describe to me in full detail what you did to me, you sick bitch, or,” With his free hand, he yanked a loosened nail from the threshold molding and held it merely a hair's width from her eye. Slowly, he lowered her feet to the floor as flesh snagged and ripped on jagged nail heads. Her body winced at the searing pain, and when air finally flowed to her oxygen starved lungs, she released a scream that was stalled by the nail trained on her eye from an unwavering hand, and the thought of impending blindness. There was nothing she could say that would make him believe she wasn't who he thought she was. Even the bleeding trenches that had jaggedly sliced into her back, though excruciating, couldn't take her attention away from thinking of an escape. Tears, however spilled from her eyes.

  “Okay,” her voice quivered. “Okay, I-I think I know what you want to know. Just... my back,” She reached around her back to ease her tattered skin before speaking further, but once she touched an open wound, the salty residue from her finger tips ignited the exposed nerves, setting flames to them. She let them bleed and returned her attention to Xoscha. “Okay, I work for... them.”

  “How long?” Xoscha barked.

  “Since, 2005?”

  “Liar! You liar! You've been there since the start and you know it!” The nail wobbled with his anger, but never moved even slightly away.

  “Okay, okay... since the start. I was there since the start. Please, could you take this nail –,”

  “What did you do to my head?”

  She was impressed that she was able to keep his anger at bay for even this long. But, now, she had no answer for him and the nail would be plunged into her eye if she couldn't figure something out. But she didn't need to. Nature had provided an escape
.

  She slapped his arm away, drew back her knee and planted it squarely into his groin. Instantly, Xoscha's body folded and flopped to the floor. The void he left while standing revealed the unobstructed back door exit. But before she could take a step toward it, a force slammed against her leg and began stinging so bad she almost joined Xoscha on the floor. She looked down and the nail that was in his hand was firmly planted in her calf. She screamed in pain, jerked the nail from her leg and threw it at Xoscha. Then, repeatedly pounded her heel into his face until the dull throb of a cracked heel raced into her calf, then thigh, then settled in ball of her hip with a sickening pulsation that beat with the pounding of her heart, attenuating that leg to firm jelly. Unable to cover his face with his hands, as they were securely clutching his groin, he turned his face away from her. But she continued digging her foot into his temples and jaw, trying to injure his eyes, bearing the incessant hip/heel pain until she realized escape was a more appropriate action. She scrambled up the stairs, falling, grabbing spindles with bloody hands, slipping, looking to see where Xoscha was, regaining her footing, jamming her knee into the edge of a stair, fighting the pain from numerous injuries, tears streaming with the hope of a successful escape, checking to see where Xoscha was, finally reaching the top stair. She sprinted to her left, down the hall and to the master bedroom. Her purse sat atop the dresser beside a jewelry box. She snatched the purse, unzipped it and poured the contents of the jewelry box – several glimmering items of female jewelry – into it. Savagely, she searched the dark for her skirt. When she saw it balled up beside the bed, she grabbed it and slid it on, still listening for Xoscha's moaning. For a moment she scanned the floor for her shoes, but quickly gave up on the search. Shoes weren't needed for escape. All she needed was her purse, an exit, and her phone so that she could call –,

  “Shit!” She yelled. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” She pounded her fist on the bed, remembering that the phone was on the floor downstairs. When she began to visualize its location, she heard the ever-so-gentle squeaking of the wooden stairs, though the moaning continued. She had ignored it, using it as a background noise and a reference to her attacker. Now she realized the moaning was subtly growing louder. He was coming.

  At the window, she looked down and considered that escape. It was two stories up, however, and thick, menacing hedges loured at the base of the house. She quickly and noiselessly left the master bedroom, pushed the door open to the first room to the left of the master and returned the door to its original position. After the second step into the room, a rancid odor pushed breakfast into her esophagus, nearly asphyxiating her and she pulled her tank top over her nose. The smell was familiar and she hoped that she didn't have the displeasure of encountering what was creating it. This room, being on the backside of the house, didn't have the luxury of a streetlamp being close by and was blacker than either the master’s bedroom, the kitchen or the living room. She searched for a starting point, a reference to seeing the room blindly, and found a bedpost. She grabbed it, reaching out, fingers brushing against the foot board, then she latched onto it and pulled her body close until the cold wood touched her. Beds were rectangular and she followed the foot board to the opposite side, hoping to get under it. She knelt into something that yielded to her weight, that released much more of the putrid smell, and felt human. But something was wrong. Dead humans had broad rib cages and long limbs. This body was far to small. This was a toy. This was not a human. It couldn't be. She felt around it, sliding her hands across grotesque bulges and through some viscous slime substance as she tried to move it from her destination. Her mind inadvertently began imagining, in full detail, what was gushing through her fingers. She suppressed the thought, swallowing hard as to keep some control over her throat muscles, because breakfast was coming. But a different message was sent to her stomach. Suddenly, she knew what she was trying to move.

  The smell of dead humans sickened her. The smell and thought of a dead child pushed breakfast out and onto the floor, thickly splattering and splashing somewhere in the blackness. She threw up as silently as possible, denying the purging sounds that accompany the act. She wanted to cry for the child, pick it up and carry the body through the hallway, down the stairs, out the front door and get help immediately, with tears treading horizontal streaks along the sides of her face – as she had seen in movies. As much as that act felt right, death waited nearby and its sickle would surely end whatever tragic-drama she had conceived. This was real.

  Life or death. The words were as clear now as seeing that mad sickness in Xoscha's eyes. Her fingers grazed the serrated blade of the knife that had ended the child's life, still lodged in the rib cage, as she pulled the small body away from the bed in haste. She laid down on the floor, raking her open back wounds along dirty carpet, maneuvered herself under the bed, receiving several long splinters from support slats in her arms, into the best position to hear Xoscha as possible, and waited. The stairs no longer squeaked, but he continued to moan in jest. He was in the upstairs hallway.

  He moved slowly through the hallway. At first, Erica heard nothing except his mocking moans. But as she quieted herself, mentally reducing the thunderous rumble of her heart with a slow and silent breathing technique, the slight sound of carpet crunching under his feet was faint but right on time because he stopped moaning, stopped moving and listened.

  The house was silent. Erica hoped for some passing birds to land on a branch outside and start chirping so that the sound would disguise her return to normal breathing. That didn't happen and it would be another hour before birds were moving around. A clock ticked softly, then loudly, in another room. A sound she hadn't noticed and had taken for granted, the air conditioning unit, came to a shuttering halt, increasing the silence. Now the clock's ticking was as loud as church bells. Xoscha must have known that. She heard a door open and his feet plop and echo against the bathroom floors tile. She heard the clock being tampered with and after a moment, the ticking stopped, the foot steps returned to the carpet, the door closed and the silence was rich. He returned to his motionless quiet and each second of silence was alive with expectation.

  “I knew it was you. I've been looking for you.” He growled. “I know you can hear me.” Erica said nothing. Her concentration was split between pacing her breathing and keeping it soundless, and trying to time her escape once he passed by the room and entered the master bedroom. “I know you're around here.” He sang in a gentle tone. “And I'm going to find you.”

  From her position she could see the threshold of the room she was in and the floor's carpeting stretching out to the hallway, courtesy of the streetlamp, and she could see he hadn't yet passed the room.

  “And you're going to tell me what you did to me, why you did it and you're going to fix it. Hell yeah. Get me back to normal so I won't be living so crazy.” He said. “I ain't crazy, you know.” His plea sounded as if he needed some validation, someone to tell him that he indeed was not crazy. Erica knew better. She had seen it lurking deep within him and there was nothing he could say, no words, that would change that. “I'm a Cum Laude, class of 1989 Yale graduate, with a Bachelor’s degree in political science. Damned politicians started that shit to trick us, you see? Science of politics. Bullshit! Ain't no damned science to it. They get you in and put that shit in your mind, you know. Oh yeah, you know. You were in it. They trained you, too. You think I'm crazy don't you?”

  Like a cat stalking prey, muscles taut with movements so protracted that motion was nearly imperceptible, his foot stepped into the doorway. She quietly gasped as he was headed for the master bedroom.

  “Yeah, I can smell you. I can smell that cheap ass perfume that you whores wear.”

  His other foot crossed the doorway. Erica moved her head in a position so that she could see what obstacles underneath the bed would pose a sound threat. But there was nothing in her way that would keep her from making a fast exit.

  Finally, after her heart's rhythm returned to its rapid thumping, r
eceiving heaps of adrenaline, he crept past the doorway.

  “Let's see what you stole from me.” He said. His voice sounded distant as if he were in the master bedroom, at least fifteen feet from her exit. “Your skirt is gone...”

  Erica slowly eased her body from underneath the bed and laid beside it for a moment, making sure he was as far into the room as possible.

  “And your purse is gone...”

  She stood up and wrapped her purse strap around the purse so that it wouldn't jingle or catch onto something on her way out.

  “Hell, it looks like you're planning to go somewhere. What else, what else...”

  She wanted her exit to be clean and quiet. But as she took tiny steps toward the door, freedom had the scent of a well-cooked steak. She could smell it, but it was still far off, and she wanted it bad. Adrenaline pushed through her veins with a suddenness she hadn't expected, and before she could mindfully reason with irrationality, her body had tilted forward, her legs began moving, her arms began swinging. No, no, no! She thought, but the bed, the room, that doorway was now behind her.

  His footfalls on the carpet were light and swift, but loud enough to be heard. He was too far away for her to care, the staircase was ahead and a mental smile stretched across her mind’s eye.

  As she reached those steps, however, her thigh began to burn, then sting, then it was set ablaze. Then, her right knee cap exploded, spraying blood and bone debris ahead of her. Her legs buckled, controlled forward movement ceased and momentum threw her into the wall at the end of the hallway. The sound of numerous explosions rippled through the air, so loud that she wasn't sure if they were real, or if she had imagined them in the swirling nonsensical brew of adrenaline, darkness and searing pain. She was able to look behind her before she collapsed and blacked out. At the other end of the hallway, Xoscha was lowering a pistol and quickly moving toward her.