Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  Before Wilson could scrape the thing off his face, he felt something long and slimy creep up his left pant leg. Another traveled across his right wrist and up into his shirtsleeve. One slipped down his collar. Sudden visions of brown-green slugs exploded in Wilson’s brain. He cried out loudly and raked his hands over his body, unable to reach anything below his waist.

  Seemingly undeterred by Wilson’s clawing, the slugs crept higher and higher, slithering across his chest, to his armpits, around his neck. It felt like hundreds of them invading every inch of his skin. Wilson gasped and clawed, panted, grunted, and before he knew it, he was shoving against the casket lid. He had to get out!

  But the casket lid wouldn’t open.

  Wilson shrieked and rammed the top of his fists against the upper lid. He kicked at the bottom cap with the toes of his shoes. Only the slugs moved.

  Slowly, doggedly, they crawled up, up from his legs to his groin, up from his chest to his throat, up to his chin, his mouth, his nose.

  Clamping his lips together so they wouldn’t get into his mouth, Wilson thrashed and kicked. He didn’t care if the dog-man heard him. He didn’t care about anything but getting out.

  The casket rocked with his efforts, but the darkness remained. Not even a sliver of light appeared from either lid. Wilson started to cry, hot fat tears that seemed to agitate the slugs even more. Their squirming grew frenzied, more directed toward his face.

  Wilson clawed two away from his mouth. “I’m sorry!” he shouted to anyone or anything that might be listening outside the casket. “Do you hear me? I’ll get it back for you, I promise! Just get me out of here, please! Please!”

  Nothing responded from outside the claustrophobic space.

  “Help, somebody, pl—” Wilson gagged as one of the slugs slid into his mouth. He coughed, spat, shoved a finger into his mouth, but before he managed to get the first one out, two more slithered inside.

  Wilson felt them everywhere now, layers of them over his chest, his arms, his legs, his face. He couldn’t work his hands fast enough to keep them away from his mouth and nose. They seemed to stand sentinel to one another, waiting their turn, forcing their way into every available orifice. He cried harder, knowing it would only make matters worse, but not able to help it.

  Oh, God, help me! his mind screamed. I’m so sorry! Please help me! Help me get out of here and I swear I’ll be different! Oh, Jesus, I can’t breathe! Jesus, no air! No—air! Please!

  Wilson flailed in the coffin, praying for any molecule of oxygen. His lungs felt ready to burst, his heart slamming against his chest. His fingers were sticky and numb, barely able to close over the layer of slugs on his face. He felt what little energy he had left draining away. Soon Wilson knew there would be no more time for prayers.

  The weight of remorse that began to settle over him felt heavier than the darkness and slugs combined. He finally lay still, no longer able to fight, and for the first time in Wilson’s life, he believed he knew what it meant to be truly sorry. Sorry for taking the medallion, sorry for screwing up so many lives, sorry for having the audacity to believe he always had tomorrow to make amends. He would trade his soul this moment if he had the chance to go back and do it all differently, especially with his son. But there was no going back. And the worst part was his knowing he would leave this place without anyone hearing how truly sorry he was. How sad, how empty, how useless it made his life seem.

  Wilson’s quivering fingers signaled the moment of his release. And when his heart stuttered over its last beat, he did not see the face of God. No bright light greeted him. No loved one waited for him at the end of a tunnel or on the shores of some calm sea. Wilson only saw and felt what he feared would be the essence of his eternity. Dark, cold, regret.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Let her go, you bastard!” Janet screamed at the man—the thing that held onto her daughter. She yanked hard on Ellie’s shirt and heard it rip.

  Janet leaned over until more than half her body stretched across the tub. “Ellie, grab on!” she yelled. Her left arm stuck out awkwardly behind her, and Heather, apparently coming out of her stupor, began pulling in the opposite direction. The shoestring cut into Janet’s wrist.

  With terror-filled eyes, Ellie strained against the man’s clutches and swung an arm around her mother’s neck. She still held onto the crystal horse, and it smacked Janet across the cheek.

  Barely flinching from the harsh sting, Janet shouted, “Hold tight, baby! Tight as you can.” When Janet felt Ellie’s arm squeeze around her neck, she let go of her daughter’s shirt and grabbed her around the waist.

  The gray-faced man bellowed with fury. His black eyes blazed, then sunk farther into his head, disappearing into sockets that glowed pus yellow. His head started to oscillate, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it was nothing but a blur. Mucus flew from his face in slimy strands that landed on Janet and began to suck and crawl over her skin like slick, hungry worms.

  “Pull, Aunt Janet, pull!” Heather cried, yanking against the tether. “Harder, pull harder!”

  “Mama!” Ellie shrieked.

  Janet dug her fingers into Ellie’s side and pulled with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  A monstrous wail of outrage erupted from the vacillating face, and the next thing Janet knew, she, Ellie, and Heather sat in a heap on the bathroom floor, once again wrapped in a chrysalis of fog. No longer able to see the man, Janet quickly rolled to one side and ripped the crawling slime off her body.

  Ellie sprang to her feet, grabbed her mother’s arm and tugged. “Hurry,” she begged.

  Not needing a second prompting, Janet scrambled to her feet and helped Heather to hers. Suddenly, a horrendous rumbling, like an army of thousands stomping in formation, reverberated through the fog. Janet scooped Ellie up with her free arm and propped the child against her, chest to chest.

  “Keep your arms around my neck,” she shouted over the din. “Wrap your legs around my waist.” Ellie did as she was told and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Janet shoved a hand between her and her daughter, pushed Ellie’s fanny pack aside so it wouldn’t poke into her ribs, then yelled down to Heather, “Walk really close to me. Right up against my leg.”

  Crying, Heather nodded and glued herself to Janet.

  Bunched together, they advanced slowly, Janet sweeping her free hand out in front of them. When her fingers connected with the bathroom doorframe, she drove the sound of marching feet out of her mind, double-checked her hold on both girls, then stepped into the hall. She trailed her fingers along the wall nearest the bathroom to keep her bearings and counted as she went. She estimated they had twenty to thirty feet to go before reaching the stairs. Heather reached over with her free hand and clutched Janet’s pant leg, doing her best to match her aunt’s steps. Ellie whimpered and dug her face deeper into her mother’s shoulder.

  On the count of fifteen, Janet slowed her pace, knowing the stairs wouldn’t be far. The stomp-boom-stomp of the marching troop abruptly ceased, and Janet didn’t know whether to be relieved or more frightened.

  Three steps—six—eight. The wall suddenly disappeared beneath her fingers, and Janet snatched her hand back. After checking once more to make certain Heather was tethered and molded against her and that Ellie’s arms and legs were securely locked around her neck and waist, Janet groped for the stair railing with her free hand. Finding it, she clumsily maneuvered the three of them down the first step. Instantly, bolts of pain slammed into Janet’s knee, and she squeezed the railing tighter to keep from falling over. Her knee faired far worse on the second step, and her legs began to tremble. By the third step, however, all thoughts of pain vanished. Janet stood perplexed, staring down the length of the staircase.

  They’d broken through the fog.

  “It’s gone,” Heather said quietly.

  Ellie turned her head for a peek, then quickly hid her face again in Janet’s shoulder.

  With her heart thumping louder than two
marching bands, Janet hustled everyone down the stairs as quickly as her knee allowed. She bit hard into her upper lip to stave off cries of pain and tasted blood.

  When she stumbled past the last step, Janet glanced back at the landing.

  The fog hung over the top of the stairs like a heavy quilt. It pulsed as though breathing.

  “Don’t stop, Mama,” Ellie whispered against Janet’s neck. Her legs squeezed tighter around her mother’s waist. “Go, okay? Go fast.”

  Kissing her daughter’s head, Janet turned back to the family room and surveyed the damage. The sofa lay on its back, the old recliner on its side, every one of their cushions ripped through and shredded. The top half of the end table rested in the fireplace, and a mangle of chairs blocked the path to the kitchen. Glass from the ship picture littered the floor. A sparse yellow light filtered in from the kitchen, swaddling the chaos in muted shadows.

  Janet choked back a sob. Her mind didn’t want to process the wreckage; it had already been through too much. This was surrealism overload. She felt Heather tug on her pant leg.

  “Are—are we going to die now?” Heather asked, her eyes glued to the destruction.

  Heather’s question shoved Janet’s protective instinct back into gear. “Nobody’s going to die,” she said loudly, defiantly, to whomever or whatever threatened them. Just then, Janet noticed Heather’s bare feet. There was no way the child would be able to walk across a glass-strewn floor.

  She reached for Heather’s right arm, quickly untied the shoelace attached to her niece’s wrist, then stooped. “C-Climb on my back,” Janet said, fighting against the spasms of pain in her knee. “I’m going to try to carry you, too. Wrap your legs around my waist just like Ellie. Put your legs over hers. Then both of you hold onto my neck, okay?”

  Heather gave a short nod, then scurried around Janet and jumped on her back. Janet’s knee immediately buckled, tossing all three to the floor.

  Gasping with pain, and with Ellie still clinging to her neck and waist, Janet struggled to her feet. Heather, having fallen off, hovered nervously nearby.

  “Ellie, y-you’re going to have to let go,” Janet said. “I can’t—”

  “No!” Ellie cried. “Don’t put me down, Mama. Don’t! They’re going to get me!”

  Janet kissed her. “I won’t let them, baby, I won’t. But you’ve got to get down. I can’t carry both of you. Heather doesn’t have shoes on, and she’ll cut her feet on the glass if I don’t carry her.”

  Ellie lobbed her head to one side to look at Heather’s feet. She gave a shivering sigh and looked into her mother’s eyes. “They’ll get me,” she said sadly.

  “They’d have to get me first.”

  Ellie’s eyes grew pained. Slowly, she untangled her feet from around Janet’s waist and slipped to the floor.

  Janet quickly made the switch, pulling Heather against her chest and tethering Ellie to her with the shoelace.

  “There are boogeymans,” Heather whispered in Janet’s ear.

  Janet patted her back. You’re right, she thought, there are. To her niece she said, “Hold tight.”

  Satisfied that both girls were secure, Janet peered up at the staircase. The fog still pulsed against the landing.

  Ellie stuttered at the sight. “G-g-go. We h-h-have to go.”

  “I’m with you, kiddo,” Janet said, then navigated them carefully around the jumbled furniture and broken glass. She fought off the urge to run. She knew if she did, she wouldn’t make another five feet without her knee collapsing.

  They’d barely made it into the dining room when Janet heard the deep, throaty growl of an animal behind them. Ellie’s screams came before she had the chance to look back.

  “Go, Mama!” Ellie cried. “Don’t stop! Don’t!”

  “I want my mama!” Heather wailed. She groped at Janet’s shirt as if she wanted to dive into her aunt’s body.

  Janet forced herself to turn around, then froze, dumbstruck. Twenty feet away in the family room stood an enormous dog. Its wide body carried a height of over four feet, and its thick, black head swung low. Something that looked like gristle dangled from its pointed, yellow-brown teeth. Massive shoulder muscles rippled and flexed, collecting strength. Its black marble eyes locked onto Ellie.

  “N-n-no!” Janet swooped down and over with her free hand, grabbed a fistful of Ellie’s shirt and tried hoisting her daughter up sideways. Janet’s knee refused the extra weight, and she collapsed.

  With the girls wailing in her ear, Janet fought to get back on her feet, but her damaged joint wouldn’t cooperate. Teeth snapped vehemently behind her and ferocious snarls escalated in volume until they melded into one continuous roar. Janet sensed the animal inches away. Time had run out. After all the fear, the struggles, the fighting, she’d won the battle for Ellie. Now they faced losing the whole damn war.

  Sobbing, Janet threw her body over the screaming girls, squeezed her eyes shut, and prayed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Countless mosquitoes drilled into Michael’s skin while he batted furiously through brush and sagging tree limbs. The recent storm had left behind a trail of broken branches and puddles as wide as bayous. It had also stolen the moon, his only possible source of light. Every one of these obstacles robbed Michael of time and distance. He’d tripped and fallen so many times, his body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants.

  He didn’t know how far he had traveled since leaving the cop. Between running when he reached a clearing, then doing various combinations of walk, duck, push when he’d reach a thick outcropping of trees, it felt like no more than two or three miles. At first, Michael had headed due north, staying just inside the forest so he wouldn’t be seen. But the patrol car and its searchlight pushed him east, to a parallel road some distance away. He’d expected backup police units or track dogs to show up any minute and join in the search for him, but they never did. The officer probably figured she’d get her collar soon enough when he came back to claim the Cadillac.

  Headlights flashed along the nearby road, and Michael dodged behind a pine tree. Moments later, an old white pickup towing a skiff rolled by.

  “Shit,” he muttered, frustrated that he’d missed another opportunity for a ride. This new road had more traffic than the previous one, which meant more chances to hitch. But he could never tell if the oncoming vehicle was a police car or not until it was too late.

  Dropping his head, Michael moved along in a half-jog, steering out of the underbrush and closer to the road. He had to do something soon. If he kept traveling at this speed, it would take him a week to get to the cabin.

  From the west, the wind carried the sound of a low, guttural engine to Michael’s ear. He stopped and listened, debating whether or not to dodge back into hiding. The rumbling soon grew louder, nearer, bringing with it unmistakable recognition. Michael knew of only one engine that sounded like that. A Harley Davidson. He knew policemen rode Harleys, but not ones with the baffles tapped out of the muffler pipes. From the sound of it, this one had been bored wide open for maximum volume.

  Michael stepped out into the road, his heart racing. In the distance, he saw small yellow and green blinking lights heading toward him. He squinted and crept back to the side of the highway, perplexed.

  Who in the hell decorates a Harley with Christmas lights? he thought.

  He heard the gears shift down twice, then twice more. The bike slowed, close enough now for Michael to make out the large black tour bike and its driver. Both appeared doused in luminous lemons and limes. Michael stuck out his thumb.

  The biker pulled up alongside him, dressed in jeans, black knee boots, and a worn out leather vest. Most of his three hundred plus pounds oozed over the seat of the bike. He pulled off a black, full-face helmet to reveal a chubby face, white scraggly beard, and a handlebar mustache. A long salt-n-pepper ponytail hung over his left shoulder, and he flicked it over to his back.

  “Hey, brother man, how goes it?” the biker asked, soundin
g a little like Brando on helium.

  “Long night,” Michael said. “Taking riders?”

  The biker cocked his head. “Don’t normally. Alberta and me usually stick to ourselves.” He patted the gas tank between his knees and grinned. “Berta here’s my baby. Sweetest thing around. Anyway, I seen you standing out here lookin’ pretty rough around the edges and thought I’d at least stop and make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’ve been better,” Michael said. “My car broke down not far from here, and I’ve got to get to my wife and daughter.”

  “Yeah? Where they at?”

  “Carlton.”

  “Man,” The biker stroked his beard with a finger and thumb. “Ways out, huh?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Close to thirty, thirty-five miles I think.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Wasn’t planning to head out that far. Just up the road a bit to my woman’s house, then shut it down for the night.”

  “I’ll take any distance you’re offering,” Michael said.

  The biker seemed to ponder the issue for a while longer, then said, “Like I told you, Berta and me don’t normally take hitchers, but I’ll tell you what—” He stuck a hand under his vest, and for a moment Michael was afraid he’d pull out a gun or knife. Instead, the man pulled out a small book. “Know what this is?”

  Though Michael had never read through one before, he’d seen enough bibles in churches to be able to spot one ten miles away. He nodded.

  “Yeah?” the biker said. “Cool. The Master Dude and me just got hooked up about two weeks ago. Been flyin’ high with Him ever since. Saved me from the horse, snort, all that bad shit, know what I mean? Anyways, if Jesus says go, we go. Cool?”

  Michael stared at him. Maybe stopping this guy hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

  The biker grinned. “Name’s Dango Reese by the way.” He stuck out a hand.