Redneck Eldritch

by Nathan Shumate

  Except…

  He looked down at the broken rock, and the gap in it that was now almost pitch-dark. Except that this was more important than money, more valuable. That’s why the Speakman brothers had spent all their time constructing tributes to what was below him, things that did the best they could at simulating it. He even though he understood why Pace might have wanted to include his arm in one of them. He found himself looking at his own arm in the gloom, and nodding slowly.

  He shook his head violently.

  No. No, he needed to think. The Speakman boys had been at it for years, trying to match the engine down there, and they’d always been pretty handy, good at fixing stuff and cobbing together machinery. They’d kept a couple tractors running for years using nothing but the random junk they could scavenge, after all. They hadn’t been too smart, any of them, and maybe he could do a better job than they had in time, but he needed to think, needed to practice, at least before he started incorporating his own bones into the machinery he was going to build.

  He felt a sudden pang for the two dumpster loads of materials that he’d sent away the day before. But there was still plenty left in the dumpsters now, or in the barn and around the yard. He could think of a few things he could use, now that he knew to.

  He ran a hand over the rock, rubbing the little pictogram of the candle, the one recognizable element to the carvings, the one element that didn’t fit. Finally he stood and started back up the slope, along the stream. It seemed like it would be a good idea to get back before dark, at least. By the time he reached the little house it was a black shape against the horizon. He made his way in, flicking on a light in the main room, then found himself continuing on into the bedroom. By the light of the single dim lamp, he looked over all the little devices scattered throughout. He could see, now, how they were connected to the larger machine buried under the pasture. They were imperfect copies of the mechanism, he could tell that even though he’d only had a glimpse at a piece of the huge engine. But they had something to them, and he shuffled through the scattered junk, picking up one, then another, to give them a closer look.

  It wasn’t until he tripped over another of the ancient cans of old tobacco spit that he paused, looking around and wondering how much time he’d wasted. There was an old, nicotine-stained clock on the wall, but its hands weren’t moving any more than the one out in the main room. He pulled out his phone, and found that the battery had died somewhere along the line.

  Shaking his head, he made his way out of the bedroom, realizing that he was exhausted. He hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, either, not that he had an appetite. He was so tired he was getting… distracted. Forgetting to charge his phone, losing track of time. He’d had to unplug the little CRT television to plug in his phone charger, and he left his phone there charging and sidled his way through piles of metal back to his sleeping bag.

  He had turned off the light and was just wriggling down into the bag when he paused. He didn’t like being asleep in the house, with its lack of locks. Not with… everything going on. The front door was the only entrance to the old house, and it didn’t even lock. He eased out of the bag with a half-sigh, half-groan. It wasn’t like his car was any colder than the house, or less comfortable for that matter, and at least it locked. He got his shoes on, and pulled on his jacket, the Glock in one pocket pulling it to one side, and made his way out onto the porch with a flashlight and his sleeping bag.

  The moon was down, and he wished that told him something about what time it was. He was feeling adrift as he looked up at the few cold stars peeking past the clouds, not knowing what time it was. He felt like he didn’t know where he was anymore, either. His car was nothing more than a dim form among the other dim forms in front of the house. Now that he looked at it, it seemed even less secure than the house. Anything could creep up and look at him through the window while he slept.

  After a few moments, he made his way down the steps. He walked around the corner of the house and into the back lawn. He needed the flashlight to avoid what junk was left there, thanks to the clouds, but soon he was at the barn. The beam of the light showed the big sliding door slumped tiredly on its tracks. He didn’t bother trying to slide it open, just pulled the spongy wood of the door out a bit so he could squeeze in.

  The variety of junk in the wide, open space of the barn made shadows bounce around crazily in the beam of his flashlight, and he kept having the sense something was about to jump him. It was a relief when he’d climbed into the back seat of the old Buick and he could flick off the light. Then it was so dark that he could easily imagine whatever popped into his head, out in the dark, but once he’d struggled into the sleeping bag, the weight of the Glock he held made him feel better.

  He actually remembered the day the Buick had been moved into the barn, now that he thought about it. Just an old junker that Orson had hauled in with a tractor while Uncle Jake yelled at Uriah. “What the hell are you spending money on something like this for?” he’d asked. “This barn’s for cows, and you ought to be replacing a few of them. For Chrissake, none of you even has a driver’s license.”

  “Didn’t pay for it,” Uriah said, and spat a stream of tobacco. “German fella in Stockbridge just wanted rid of.”

  “We need the parts,” Amos added. “Gotta fill the gaps.” Emmett shook his head in the dark. He didn’t know what Amos had meant by filling gaps, but the Buick had apparently been the thing that kicked off the barn’s slide from housing livestock to being a depository for junk.

  Emmett shifted on the seat, wishing again that he knew what time it was. It felt like he’d lost a lot of time, first in the old silo, then in the Speakman brothers’ bedroom. Tired as he was, in fact, it seemed like he was just waking up. Had the Speakman boys felt like they were half-asleep sometimes? He kind of thought they had. Uncle Jake had spent a lot of time cursing the way they acted disconnected, made it hard to get through to them. It was that engine under the ground, somehow, that did it. Emmett still felt the compulsion to work on machinery, like they always had, though it wasn’t so bad now. Had he really been planning to use his own bones in a machine?

  No. No, that didn’t make sense. Still, he was going to have to give everything some serious thought in the morning. In the daylight.

  ***

  He jolted awake from a dream where he’d been arguing with Amos and Uriah in the main room of their house. Emmett kept gesturing to the bedroom where one of their brothers was dead and the other dying, but they just nodded absently, and tried to look past him at the TV playing Jeopardy! (not Wheel of Fortune) while their hands worked at making little machines. Amos had just shaken his head and said, “You gotta keep workin’, Emmett, you want to stay ahead of it.”

  Emmett blinked, wondering why he’d woken up. Maybe just the fact that sleeping in the back seat of the Buick was twisting up his back.

  A car door slammed outside.

  Emmett sat up, groping for the Glock. It was still pitch-dark in the barn, so it wasn’t like he’d overslept and everyone was arriving to get back to cleaning stuff up. They weren’t coming back until Monday anyway. He awkwardly wriggled out of the sleeping bag and groped for his shoes. He strained so hard to hear any little noises that when there was a loud bang he jumped and hit his head on the window.

  It had been the front door to the house, he thought. He eased the door to the Buick open and stepped out. He didn’t dare use his flashlight, so he had to shuffle carefully across the barn, feeling his path ahead, to avoid stumbling over anything.

  He made it to the sliding door and squeezed out. It was nearly as dark outside as it had been in the barn—all the stars were gone. But he could see a light in the bedroom window of the house, and as he watched a silhouette passed in front of it.

  Emmett froze for a moment, then made his way slowly across the yard toward one of the barely visible piles of junk. The light in the window flicked out, and a moment later the front door slammed again as he crouched near th
e pile. With the light inside the house out, Emmett couldn’t make out much of anything, but he thought he saw a shadow near the barn a moment before the big door squealed on its tracks. A flashlight beam flickered from inside the barn as it was played around the area. After a minute or two the light flicked out, and the rusty door complained again.

  Emmett gripped the Glock tightly where he crouched. He could see something near the barn, a spot blacker than the surrounding darkness, and he was tempted to take a shot. But he couldn’t make out any details—the shadow was jumping around, appearing, disappearing, looking like two shadows.

  After a bit, he thought he detected the shadow moving around the opposite side of the barn, toward the pasture. A light came on as whoever it was flicked on a flashlight out in the pasture. It was JT, most likely. Or maybe it was someone else, but in any case he thought he knew where she was headed, and for a moment he thought about following her. She had no right to what was buried under the pasture, no right at all.

  He gave himself a shake. No, he had to do the smart thing. He waited a few minutes to be sure she wouldn’t double back, then made for the house. Even in the starless dark, he could see that his car was the only one in the driveway. JT must have parked down the road so she could come in quietly. That meant the car door he’d heard had been her checking his car. His legs went a little rubbery at the thought that he’d almost been sleeping there while she crept up on him.

  He climbed onto the porch and turned on his flashlight, keeping it pointed low with one hand curled around the lens as he made his way into the main room. The end of the charging cord for his phone sat atop the TV, but the phone itself was gone. He looked back at the end table near the couch. His car keys were missing, too. So JT hadn’t wasted her time in the house.

  Emmett found himself smiling in the dark. Well, if she was going to force his hand, so be it. He’d have to be careful, but he hadn’t liked the idea of letting anyone mess around with his machine anyway.

  He flicked off the flashlight as he walked past the barn. He could feel a cold mist rolling in, which turned JT’s light into a diffuse glow far off into the pasture. He shoved the flashlight awkwardly into his pocket and checked the Glock as he started forward.

  He could see where JT had stopped ahead from her light, but that was about all he could see, so he had to move slowly over the uneven ground. Despite his care, smacked his knee painfully against something in the dark. He groped across the object, feeling a length of chain that gave a bit when he pulled on it. One of the strange devices the brothers had made.

  Emmett froze at a noise, something that sounded like metal on stone. He peered at the glimmer of light, trying to make something out. The noise came again, from off to his left. He whirled, and thought he saw a dim shape, something just a bit blacker than the surrounding dark. It was really just a suggestion of motion, there then gone.

  He staggered back a step, holding up the pistol. JT might have brought help. Or maybe someone else had gotten wind that the Speakmans were hiding something. He took two more steps back up the slope and crouched, slowly moving the Glock back and forth.

  The noise came again, closer this time, a scrape and a click. His grip on the pistol tightened, but he couldn’t make anything out. The scream, when it came, startled him so badly that he would have fired if his finger had been on the trigger. There was a second scream, and he was already running before he could figure out where it had come from.

  He ran headlong through the dark until he finally, inevitably, put a foot in a groundhog hole and went sprawling across the dead grass. He lay there for a second, catching his breath and feeling a sharp throb in his ankle. Finally, he rolled onto his back and sat up, head cocked to listen. The screaming had stopped, but he could hear something. A scraping noise? It was very quiet, just at the edge of hearing, so he might be imagining it. He wasn’t even certain where he was—the glow had vanished at some point, and it was as if he was floating in space, with no point of reference.

  He’d kept hold of the Glock, but he’d lost the flashlight. It was probably for the best. He wanted to know where he was, but more than that, he wanted to remain hidden. He looked around, trying to spot the flashlight beam, but there was nothing. It was off, or cut off from his view. Emmett drew his knees to his chest, hugging himself for warmth, and waited.

  He wasn’t sure how much later it was, but he gradually became aware that he could see a tuft of tall brown grass not far away, near a dull gray rock. Colors were back. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it was near, not that he’d see it through the thick fog that had risen during the night and now obscured everything more than twenty feet away or so. But he could tell what direction he was facing, at least.

  He stood painfully. He was shivering, but also stiff and sore, a bad combination. It was better now, though. Now that he could see. Even with the fog, things seemed safer. He walked a few brisk circles, trying to get his blood flowing and loosen his throbbing ankle. What was the next step? He still didn’t have his phone or keys, so trying to get help would mean a long walk. With the fog, though, he didn’t have to worry about being seen by anyone still prowling around the farm.

  That same fog made it hard for him to know where he was in relation to the house, but the road was uphill, he knew that much. He’d only been walking for a minute when he heard a metallic rattle from up ahead. It made him more nervous than it should have, and he felt the Glock going sweaty in his hand. He advanced slowly, hearing the rattle again.

  He thought he was getting close to the road when a stray breeze shredded some of the mist and the barn suddenly loomed out of the fog to his left. The rattle came again, near the barn, and he made for it, placing his feet carefully and keeping the barn between him and the noise.

  He got to the barn and eased around it, and there she was, half-obscured by mist. JT, hauling a wheelbarrow up to the silo—the newer one that he’d checked and found empty. The wheelbarrow rattled again as she dropped the arms—there were a few things in it, including a shotgun, with its barrel peeking over the side.

  Her back was to Emmett as she stepped forward to examine the lowest doorway. Emmett raised the Glock, in the grip they’d taught him back in the force, and started forward slowly as JT tried the door. He was just getting into comfortable range for a pistol shot when JT straightened and turned toward him.

  He froze, finger on the trigger. She reached back and grabbed a sledgehammer from the wheelbarrow, and turned back to the door without seeing him in the mist. He took a few more steps toward her as she tapped the rusty levers holding the door shut.

  Once you’re sure, you act, Uncle Jake had always said. Once you know someone is a real threat, you do what you need to do, and you don’t hesitate, because that’s when things go wrong. Anna Wittington had been a threat. One of her cousins had tried to muscle in on Jake’s weed business, and word was she was pissed about Emmett burning the guy’s house down for it. Pissed enough to think about going to the police.

  And JT was even more of a threat than Anna had been. She had a record, and she was prowling around with a shotgun, and she’d been out there last night, trying her damnedest to kill him, most likely.

  He took a few more quiet steps forward as JT opened the door with a squeal. He was only a few yards away now, and if she hadn’t been so focused on the silo, on the treasure she thought was in there, she would have sensed him.

  No hesitation. He raised the Glock a few inches. JT bent, peering into the silo. Once you know someone is a real threat, you do what you need to do. He let the pistol drop slowly until it was pointed at the ground.

  JT ducked through the hatchway and stepped in, dragging the sledgehammer behind her.

  Emmett let out a breath. He stepped forward, and in one motion grabbed the door and pulled it shut.

  “Hey!” JT said from inside as he slammed the lever home, latching the door. “Hey!” she shouted again. “Parson, is that you?” Emmett let out another breath and looked at the wheelbarrow. It hel
d a bunch of junk—rebar, some pieces of two-by-four, a bucket, in addition to the old shotgun. He didn’t know what JT had been planning, but he had some time to think about it now. He tucked the Glock into his jacket pocket and grabbed the shotgun.

  Now that JT wasn’t a threat, he could start down the road without worrying about her. But he could also check out the machine again, and suddenly he wanted to take another look, make sure she hadn’t damaged it the night before. He started down the slope through the pasture, ignoring the muffled shouts from inside the silo.

  A thought fluttered through his head, something that nagged at him. Something about the silo, and JT. If she’d been to the old silo, why had she… the thought fell apart on him. It was getting hard to think, and it didn’t matter anyway. He could figure it out when he went back to deal with her.

  As he walked, her shouts faded, either because she’d given up or because they were swallowed up by the fog. Even the normal sounds of birds and animals were muffled, after all. As he neared the old silo, though, he finally heard something—a faint wet, sliding noise. He raised the shotgun as he walked, slowing his pace even further. A dim shape emerged from the mist, a low, hunched form.

  A faint breeze pushed the mist away, up ahead, and Emmett stumbled to a halt, the barrel of the shotgun dropping. Dan was crouched on the ground just outside the ruin, his back to Emmett. The rest of the scene came to Emmett in a series of flashes. Blood spattered across the rocks. Homer lying on the ground. A pile of Homer’s entrails nearby.

  Dan was holding one of Homer’s massive arms up, working at it with a knife. Emmett could see a flash of white bone, and he realized that another white and red object nearby was a bone from Homer’s other arm, already mostly stripped of flesh.

  Emmett must have made some kind of noise, because Dan whirled, still in a crouch, and in one motion he’d scooped up a shotgun and leveled it. For a moment, neither of them moved. A grin slowly spread across Dan’s face. “Drop it, Emmett.”