by Ike Hamill
“Almost like he was mad at ’em for givin’ up.” Horace chuckled and flipped on his turn signal. Davey looked ahead and saw the stop sign, but Horace traced the direction of his glance and barely slowed down for the turn. He rolled through the stop sign with his hand on the emergency brake, ready to haul Davey back in if he should decide to take his chances with the moving pavement.
“You seem all done up alluvasudden,” said Horace, glancing down at Davey.
“No sir,” said Davey, eyes fixed forward. He jumped when Horace’s right hand landed on his thigh. The man’s coarse palm slid up and down along Davey’s jeans, rubbing the fabric uncomfortably against his skin. Horace squeezed Davey’s thigh as he flipped on his signal and swept into a wide turn onto a dirt drive.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Horace. “I’ve got to stop at the house for a second.”
Davey swallowed hard and tried to slow his pounding heart. He tried to ignore the man’s abrasive hand scratching his skin through his jeans, but each time the hand rose up it brushed closer to Davey’s privates. Davey tasted thick, sour acid in his mouth as his teeth drew blood from his mangled cuticle. His muscles, tensing and pulsing with his desire to run, already felt weak as if he had run a marathon sitting in this car.
Without understanding his own motive, Davey flicked his bleeding finger at the man’s hand. A tiny drop of bright-red blood stood out on the back of Horace’s craggy hand. Horace didn’t notice; he focused on moving his hand closer and closer to breaking several more laws.
Horace kept the car moving fast as he pulled up to the trailer in the woods. Davey scanned the property and readied himself to spring from the car. Horace finally lifted his hand from Davey’s thigh as he jammed on the brakes, flopping Davey into the restraint of his seatbelt. Just as Davey recognized his one chance for escape, Horace’s fist came crashing down on the side of Davey’s head, snapping it to the right. The man said something, but Davey’s world had turned gray and he couldn’t follow the words.
* * * * *
“YOU ALL RIGHT?” Horace asked.
Davey blinked and shook his head, trying to find his vision in the dark room. The only sources of light were tiny cracks and seams around the windows and door, and a pair of dusty lava lamps in the corners.
“Hitcha a little harder than I shoulda,” admitted Horace. “You was out for a good piece. I di’nt wanna hafta wrestle you all the way ’cross the yard.”
Davey put his hand to his head and looked down at himself. He sat in the corner of a long couch, across from Horace who sat on the edge of a rocking chair, leaning forward.
“I di’nt do nuthin’ to ya,” said Horace. “Aside from that knock, that is,” he amended. “We’ll get to what you want, I promise.” He wagged his finger. “But I’m not feeling just right yet. You want some weed?”
Davey shook his head and stayed silent.
“What’s that? Can’t hear ya?” Horace prompted.
“No, thanks,” said Davey.
Horace reached down next to his chair and raised a tall plastic bong. Its transparent blue surface was covered with white skull stickers. The wrinkled man packed the bowl and puffed away, blowing a cloud of smoke towards Davey.
Davey wrinkled his nose and tried to not inhale until the smell had dissipated. He blinked hard several times, trying to bring himself back to full consciousness.
“I felt great just a minute ago,” said Horace. “It’ll pass. I know I’m a tease, makin’ you wait, but I want to give you my best.” He winked at Davey as he sucked in another bong hit.
Scanning the room, Davey inventoried the blacked-out windows and the thin line of sunlight beneath the door. He watched as Horace inhaled, hoping the man would pass out from the drugs. His captor coughed out another cloud of thick smoke.
“I’m saturated,” said Horace. He smiled and waved to Davey. “Why dontcha come over here for a minute. Maybe you can get me goin’?”
Davey bit down on his lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to prepare himself for his escape attempt. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he slid forward to the edge of the couch. He stayed quiet. He didn’t want Horace to guess his intentions until he was past the man’s rocking chair.
Davey kept the round table between himself and the door as he moved over to Horace. He didn’t know much about weed, but Davey suspected that it would slow Horace’s reactions, and give him an even better chance of escape. As he put one foot in front of the other, moving towards Horace’s beckoning wave, Davey willed the world to slow down. His foot slowed to slow, gentle arc, and Davey thought he had done it—he had slowed down the world like when he first fought Curtis. Glancing back up at Horace’s full-speed hand, Davey realized that he had succeeded in nothing more than walking extra slowly. Panic rose to his throat.
He didn’t know exactly what Horace intended to do. In his estimation, nothing good would happen in this dark, dirty trailer. When Davey reached Horace’s side, the wrinkled man’s hand shot up towards Davey’s wrist. This time Horace’s motion did slow to a crawl and Davey realized that the threat of being touched again by those leathery hands had triggered the slowdown that he couldn’t force.
Horace’s hand, slow as it was, kept coming. Davey jerked his hand out of the way and cocked back his fist to repeat the solar plexus move that had disabled Curtis days before. He fired his pointed knuckles at Horace’s chest and put his whole shoulder into the blow. Having missed its original target, Horace’s hand kept coming, correcting fast for Davey’s evasion and speeding up despite Davey’s supernatural speed. Davey’s own hand connected with Horace’s chest, but didn’t find the soft patch of flesh it anticipated.
Horace’s abdomen stood taught. It repelled Davey’s punch and the man neither gasped nor doubled over. Regardless of his ineffectual attack, Davey had the advantage of speed, so he spun and pumped his legs towards the dented door.
Behind him, he heard Horace begin to yell. Horace’s voice sounded stretched and low to Davey’s super-speed ears. Davey reached the door and jerked back on the handle. It didn’t move. He flailed back and forth, tugging on the knob. It didn’t move even a fraction of an inch. Horace’s sounds behind him started to make sense—Davey realized that the man was laughing.
A tightening at his waist preceded a violent tug backwards. Davey looked back and saw Horace pulling a thick hunk of rope with both hands. He turned back to the door, but something new caught his eye—in the gloom Davey could just make out the shape of a deadbolt mounted near the top of the door and another near the floor. The world began to speed back up as Horace reeled him in by the rope threaded through his rear belt-loops.
“Heh, heh, heh,” Horace cackled as Davey caught back up to real time. “Where’s ya goin’, Johnny?” He laughed. “You can run, but yer pants are stayin’ here, as you can see.” Horace’s accent thickened as he laughed. He stretched even the short words out to multiple syllables. “Now who ya tryin’ to hit with that little fist?” He cooed at Davey as he grabbed his belt and hauled him in the rest of the way.
Now stretched across the man’s lap, Davey could smell the second-hand weed and cigarettes. He cringed and pulled up his legs, but Horace wrapped his wiry arms and gripped him tight.
“I’m not like my pops,” said Horace. “I don’t wanna break you.”
Horace coughed again. He paused for a second and then coughed even harder. Davey tried to pull his arm away from Horace’s hot breath, but he wasn’t strong enough to counter the man’s grip. A wet mist rained on Davey’s arm and he looked down to see Horace smiling up at him. This close to the man, Davey saw the thick red blood coating Hoarace’s lips. Horace had coughed even more blood onto Davey’s arm. Somehow in the clutches of this drugged rapist, Davey’s fear began to dissolve as the realization traveled up from his own arm: Horace had been infected and wouldn’t last much longer.
Davey smiled at the thought.
“Glad yer comin’ around.” Horace’s smile broadened.
“We’re gonna have some…” he trailed off into another coughing fit—this one consuming enough of his energy that his grip loosened and Davey was able to pull away.
By the end of the hacking, Davey had moved back several feet and regarded Horace with a curious smile. He knew what had happened; he realized that Horace’s current disability was his own doing and Davey stood proud, watching the effect. Horace was a victim of Davey’s blood. At the time, Davey hadn’t even realized why he had shook the tiny drop of blood on Horace’s molesting hand, but he knew now. That blood had done it’s job and now doomed Horace to this terrible fate.
“What…” said Horace. “What?” he continued and then stopped again to shudder and double over with spasms of coughing.
“Goodbye, Horace,” said Davey.
As if on cue, Horace vomited a stomachful of thick blood and stringy clots. He retched for several minutes and a pool of gooey black blood spread around his rocking chair on the thin dirty carpet. Davey backed away until his legs hit the couch. He rubbed the smear of blood on his left arm.
When he had cleared his stomach, Horace raised his head enough to eye Davey. Strings of blood-drool dripped towards the floor. He managed one last confused question—“Whud you dooda me?” Horace slumped forward, his head hitting the table and arresting his fall. Davey circled the room the other direction, never taking his eyes from the dead man. His smile evaporated.
Davey fumbled with the deadbolts, getting the upper one quickly, but struggling with the lower. He looked up frequently to check on the state of Horace, who remained dead.
With the deadbolts finally released, Davey returned his focus to the knob, pulling and twisting and checking back over his shoulder. It took him several seconds to realize why he hadn’t made any progress. He peered at the sweat-polished knob and saw the inset lock. He pinched the dial and turned it until the knob was free. Davey pulled open the door, blinded by the dappled sunlight of the wooded yard and threw himself outside.
Halfway down the wobbly wooden stoop, Davey was jerked back again and landed in a heap. He panicked. Adrenaline surged through him as he imagined Horace laughing from inside the dark trailer. He clawed at the flat stone in front of the porch, trying to escape the restraint, and nearly succeeded in pulling his pants past his hips. Davey stopped struggling and looked back at the taught rope. It was still connected to his belt-loops. The other end was either caught or tied, but either way, he would have to get loose.
Davey imagined going back into the dark trailer to untie the other end of the rope, but cast that idea away immediately. Sitting on the porch and peering through the dark doorway every few seconds, he tried to work the knot free from his pants. His numb fingers couldn’t get a grip and he stopped to try to tear the belt-loops open, but the angle was wrong and he couldn’t get leverage.
Considering his options, he could only think of two: leave his pants behind, or go back inside to either find a knife or free the other end. He had almost settled on leaving the pants when the knot gave way and he managed to thread the rope through the loops. He bolted. Davey sprinted down the long twin ruts that served as the trailer’s driveway. Normally an excellent runner, Davey spent his energy carelessly and was sucking wind before he even reached the road.
He paused by the mailbox and bent at the waist, fresh air tearing through his burning lungs. An approaching engine snapped him upright and he whipped his head left and right, looking for a place to hide. A chest-high boulder sat back from the corner of the driveway. Davey tromped through the ferns and knelt behind the rock, using it to shield his body from the road. He bent his head and waited for the vehicle to pass.
Davey pulled his arms in closer as he heard the car slowing. The dirt and gravel crunched as the tires left the road and turned on to the driveway. Davey crouched lower, making himself as small as possible and trying to disappear into the dirt. His fears were realized when he heard the car skid to a stop directly alongside his position. He steeled himself to run again. Neither his mind nor body were ready for a chase, but Davey decided he would force himself to run as far and as fast as he could.
Without facing his new adversary, Davey sprung up and ran around the rock towards the road, cutting through the underbrush and gully in the shoulder of the road. He only covered a few paces when a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. Davey’s hand went to his mouth—he realized what his instinct instructed him to do: he would poison this new captor with his blood, just as he had done to Horace.
A voice stopped him from cutting his teeth too deep into the flesh of his hand.
“Son.” The strong hand spun him around.
Davey looked up at the wide-brim hat and uniform of a police officer. His shock and exhaustion overwhelmed him. Davey fell back out of the grip of the cop and onto his butt in the soft forest dirt.
“You’re okay,” the man said, kneeling next to Davey. “It’s going to be okay.”
His finger went up, lifted by his guilt and fear. Davey pointed down the long dirt driveway in the direction of the trailer. “Th-th-there’s a muh-muh-man,” he stammered.
“I know,” said the officer. Davey glanced up to see another office rounding the vehicle with a radio in his hand. “One of the neighbors called in a young hitchhiker. She suspected that Mr. Dunn picked you up. We were just coming by to check everything out—make sure you were okay.”
“But h-h-he’s,” Davey tried to finish his confession.
“Don’t worry,” reassured the cop. “Stan’s going to take care of Mr. Dunn, and you and I will go someplace safe and get in touch with your parents. That sound good?” He put out his hand for the boy. Davey reached up with his slightly bloody hand and then pulled away and extended the clean one. Now that he knew what his blood could do, he didn’t want to risk hurting his rescuer. The officer helped Davey to his feet and walked him slowly back to the cruiser.
Another police car pulled up to the mouth of the driveway as the helpful officer closed the door. Davey kept his eyes dry, but his breath hitched on every inhale. The cop adjusted his mirror and glanced at Davey every few seconds on the ride back to the station.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Mike
BILL DROVE AND MIKE RESTED with his head against the window in the passenger’s seat. They had already stopped at two different hardware stores to purchase rope, straps, duct tape, and other supplies to help them secure the Rogue. Bill aimed his GPS at where they approximated the Rogue had hidden and they drove in silence.
When they approached to within a few miles of their destination, Bill nudged Mike fully awake.
“How close are we?” asked Mike.
“Not really sure, but maybe a mile and a half,” said Bill.
“Why aren’t you sure? Did it move while I was asleep?” Mike looked around and saw the detector on the seat behind him. It was off.
“No,” said Bill. “Well, actually I don’t know, but it’s still daylight for another few hours. I was thinking though—we know it’s on this heading, but it could be any distance. We assumed that it was nearly on a straight line from where you first saw the footprint to the kids house, but it could have veered.”
“That’s true,” said Mike. “It will be easy to test though. We’ll just fire up that thing and wait for the direction to change if we pass it.”
“That’s why I woke you up,” said Bill.
“Oh,” said Mike. “Sorry, I’m still a bit asleep.”
He reached around and fetched the device. The device was small, tiny compared to Gary’s version, and Mike could hold it with one hand and point it in various directions to find the strongest signal. The display was a simple bar-graph, made of green, yellow, and red lights. Only the power requirements, which meant it had to be plugged into the car’s accessory outlet, prohibited the device from being truly portable.
Mike flipped the switch and waved the device in a short arc, honing in on the signal.
“Still headed the right direction,” he announced. The signal w
as at its peak in nearly the exact direction they traveled. Mike reached to the back again and pulled out one of his large paper maps he had brought along to supplement Bill’s GPS. He propped the map up on his knees.
A woman’s voice called out from the GPS, instructing Bill to turn right.
“What do you think?” asked Bill.
Mike traced the lines on his map before answering. “Makes sense,” he said. “This road is going to veer off to the left up here, so yeah, a right turn.”
Bill slowed and turned on the next road. For almost a minute the signal stayed off to their left, forcing Mike to point the detector almost in Bill’s face. As soon as their road wound around a few more turns, the signal moved out front once more.
“Arriving at destination,” the GPS announced, surprising both men.
“I guess I missed the mark with the GPS,” said Bill.
“No worries,” said Mike. “We’re still going the right direction.”
Bill obeyed a stop sign and they took the opportunity to conference over the paper map.
“There’s nothing in this direction,” he said.
“Could be he’s holed up in another cave,” offered Mike. “We know he’s fine with cave-lodging.”
“Yeah,” said Bill. “I’ll just keep driving until the signal pulls off.”
* * * * *
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER, when they had traveled almost four miles, Bill prepared to pull over so he could see if Mike knew how to properly read the device.
“I’m telling you, it’s fine,” said Mike. “The signal is getting gradually stronger, and it’s for sure… Wait. Stop!” he yelled as he spun in his seat.
Bill brought the car to a skidding halt on the cracked pavement. When he had pulled off the road onto the shoulder, Mike handed him the detector and focused on the map.
“It’s here,” he tapped his lap. “Through the woods.”
“Just out in the woods?” Bill asked as he adjusted the device and narrowed down on the exact bearing. He didn’t look up from the readout to ask his question.