As we approached the barn, I saw that we weren’t alone. About twenty people, each bound hand and foot, were spread out on the lawn. Another man who bore a strong family resemblance to our captors stood over them with a hunting rifle. He strutted around without a shirt, displaying a vast array of faded black tattoos which were either prison issue or homespun.
“Look what we caught, Daryl,” said Henry. “Ain’t they pretty?”
The man he’d called Daryl gave Violet and Cathy an appraising look. “You can have the little one,” he grunted. “I want the mama.”
“Yeah, well you can have her after I’m done with her,” squawked Scooter. “You went first last time. It’s my turn.”
I stared into the faces of the captives and saw their eyes were filled with pity, even terror. As the brothers argued about who was going first, my eyes fell on one of the men who was desperately trying to catch my attention. His eyes locked on mine and then shifted slightly and looked past me. Slowly, I turned my eyes and I spotted the short-handled pitchfork. I quickly returned my attention to the man and gave him a quick nod. By this time, Daryl and Scooter each had one of Cathy’s arms and were dragging her off to a large wooden shed. Henry was squatted down in front of Violet, staring up into her face. She was standing in the soft sand of the horseshoe driveway less than ten feet away from me.
“We can do this the easy way,” he said to her. “Or I can go get my hammer and we can do this the hard way; makes no difference to me.”
I could see from the look on Henry’s face that he meant it. Life had suddenly become cheap and innocence had become a luxury. Slowly, as Henry reached up and pulled Violet down to her knees, I began to inch back to the pitchfork.
Henry had been holding Cathy’s gun and casually tossed it aside. Roughly he unbound her wrists, grasped Violet by her shoulders and pulled her on top of him. “Come on, baby,” he grunted. “You know you want me.”
A few feet from the pitchfork, I slipped off my backpack. The captives all seemed to be staring at me and my guts were twisting. Henry was flat on his back and little Violet was on top of him as limp as a ragdoll. Cathy was screaming at Violet to fight and demanding that Scooter and Daryl let her go. Scooter wound back and slapped her hard across the cheek. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, but she continued to fight as the men dragged her into the shed. I dropped to one knee and just as I reached for the pitchfork, Henry caught my eye. He let out a roar of anger and a second later there was an explosion.
Violet was suddenly on her feet, holding her mother’s handgun in both hands, running toward the open door of the shed. Henry was clutching his chest as blood gurgled from the wound. Scooter appeared first, followed by Daryl. They each held guns, but they were confused by the little girl who ten feet away suddenly froze into a perfect shooter’s stance. Scooter raised his shotgun, but Violet cracked off a quick shot; the bullet struck him in the forehead. He was thrown onto his back as a fountain of blood erupted from his wound. Daryl dropped his gun and raised his hands.
After freeing ourselves, we bound Daryl and Henry with the same gray tape they had used on us. Henry’s wound was high up on his shoulder, but the bullet had passed through cleanly and missed his vital organs. With Violet calmly holding the two brothers at gunpoint, Cathy and I set out to free the others. After thanking us, nearly half of the group ran off to the woods behind the barn. We returned to Violet and Cathy slipped the gun out of her hands. “You saved our lives,” I said. “Thank you.”
Violet gave me a blank stare and nodded her head.
“Who taught you how to shoot like that?” I asked.
“Grandma did.”
“Are you kidding me?” asked Cathy.
“Grandma said I was a natural.”
Cathy bent down and took Violet into her arms. “Oh baby,” she moaned. “I’m so sorry about this. You’re too young to have taken a life.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed as she stared at a woman who was attending to Henry. “They were going to kill us,” she said, flatly. “They deserved to die. Why are we helping them?”
The man who had directed me to the pitchfork stepped forward. He was at least ten years older than me and had the wiry build of a rodeo cowboy. He was dressed in blue jeans and a short-sleeved checkered shirt. His face was hard and crow’s feet were etched deep around pale blue eyes. He held a shotgun slung over his shoulder. “The kid has a point,” he said. “I think we ought to finish the job.”
“But then we’d be no better than they are,” said a matronly woman who sat nearby. “We’re not murderers, Ace.”
The cowboy turned to face the woman. “Aunt Janie, what do you suggest we do with them? If we leave them here, they’ll tell them what happened and we’ll be recaptured before the sun sets.”
“I won’t have any part of it,” she replied.
“He’s right,” said Violet. “I’ll shoot the bad guys if no one else will.”
“I’ll shoot them,” volunteered a tall skinny man. He had been watching the woman tending to Henry and walked over to join us. He was dark-haired with the pale skin of a funeral director. “That Henry,” he said, wiping a tear from one eye, “he shot my dog. My Buddy never hurt anyone. No, young lady, I’ll be happy to send both of those monsters straight to hell.”
There were perhaps twelve of us there and most of them began walking over to chime in on the situation. “They raped me,” said a thin, middle-aged woman. “Let me shoot them.”
“That one,” said a short dark-haired woman, pointing to Daryl. “He killed my friend. He shot him … for no reason.”
“I say we hang them,” said a portly farmer with bushy white hair. “It’s better than what they deserve.”
“We can’t leave them here,” said a scrawny teenage kid with bright red hair. “They’ll just keep doing what they’ve been doing. I’ll shoot them. Honest I will.”
“Listen to you people,” bellowed the woman Ace had called Aunt Janie. “You sound like a pack of wild animals. This is America and these men, as bad as they are, deserve to be tried by a jury of their peers.”
“No,” said Violet, “they don’t. Ace is right, they’ll only tell the soldiers what happened here and they’ll find us. You know they will.”
Cathy and I exchanged a look and Cathy spoke up. “My daughter is right. I say we put this to a vote. Who here thinks we should let the murdering rapists live? Who here thinks we should give them another chance to murder and rape again?”
“We promise never to do it again!” shouted Daryl. “Ain’t that right, Henry? We’re sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t do this!”
I looked at Daryl. He was wearing the same face he had likely worn when his parents had caught him stealing. He stared at us with basset hound eyes and his bottom lip was puckered out. Next to him, Henry lay on his back and stared up at the branches of the elm tree above him. The woman who had been tending to him was already on her feet. She was young and pretty and the look on her face was that she had done all she could. The matter was out of her hands. I had expected her to raise her hand, but she did not.
The only one among us to raise her hand was Janie. She stared at us in disbelief. “I will not be a party to this,” she stammered, rising to her feet. “I’m leaving. Ace, if this is what you really want to do, don’t you dare follow me. I’m going home. I won’t travel with a murderer.”
“Suit yourself,” muttered Ace. “I’m going to go find a rope.”
“There’s no time for that,” said Cathy. “Let’s just shoot them.”
The skinny man with the dead dog walked over and gestured for Ace to give him the shotgun. Ace looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and handed it over. I reached down to take Violet’s hand. I didn’t want her to see this, but she crossed her arms across her chest and gave Daryl a cold stare.
“She’ll be fine,” said Cathy, who still held her protectively.
“Oh God,” moaned Daryl. “Please, don’t do this. We promise not to say a word to the soldiers. D
on’t we, Henry?”
“Shut up,” grunted Henry. “Act like a man, Daryl. Goddamn it.”
“But I don’t want to die.”
“Quit your sniveling.”
The skinny man was dressed in black khaki slacks and a dirty white shirt. I watched him walk over to stand in front of Daryl and there seemed to be a spring in his step. “You killed Buddy,” he said, coldly. “Do you remember how you did it? Let me refresh your memory, asshole. You first shot him in the leg, like this,” the skinny man held the barrel of the shotgun above Daryl’s bound ankles and I heard the click of the safety. He pulled the trigger and there was an explosion. The semiautomatic shotgun kicked a shell into the dirt and Daryl began screaming at the top of his lungs.
I shook my head and began to charge in, but Ace held me back. “Let him do it his way. You ever have a dog?”
I nodded and thought about Gunner and Thor. Whatever sympathy I felt for Daryl was gone in an instant. I looked up to see Janie and the young woman who had been tending to Henry jogging towards the woods. When I looked back to the skinny man, he was standing over Henry and pointing the shotgun down at his face. Daryl had gone silent, but his eyes were wide with terror. The barrel was less than a foot away from Henry’s nose. “Do you have any last words?” asked the skinny man.
“Kiss my ass,” grunted Henry.
“Not today,” replied the skinny man and pulled the trigger.
I turned away as Henry’s head exploded like a ripe pumpkin. Both the skinny man and Daryl were covered in bits of gore and splatters of blood. Daryl began screaming again and the skinny man kicked him hard in the stomach with a pointy shoe. The screaming stopped as Daryl fell to his back and began fighting for air.
“Do you remember kicking Buddy? Do you remember me begging you not to shoot him, Daryl? Do you remember the way you laughed at me? Let me see if I can remind you how you sounded,” he said, and then the skinny man let loose with heckling laughter.
“Please,” gasped Daryl, “don’t kill me. I’m going to get married next month.”
The skinny man’s laughter rose to a frenzied pitch, but it stopped as suddenly as it had started. He stared at Daryl with cold eyes. “Like hell you are,” he said. He then raised the shotgun and stuck the barrel in Daryl’s stomach. He then pulled the trigger. Daryl’s body heaved up in a way that didn’t seem possible. He howled in pain, but the howling quickly began to subside as he began to bleed out. He stared at the thin man with his sad face and shook his head in disbelief. A moment later, Daryl began to twitch.
The thin man turned to face us and a sad smile flashed across his bony face. Then, quicker than I thought possible, he twisted and turned the shotgun onto himself. Before I could shout for him to stop, the shotgun barked one final time.
“Aw shit!” shouted Ace. “No …”
The skinny man was blown backwards and was dead before he hit the ground. I turned and stood in front of Violet and Cathy, determined not to let the young girl see any more of this gruesome show. I looked down at her, but her eyes were blank and lifeless. Cathy began to weep as she ushered Violet away from the driveway towards the barn. The others began to follow her as if she knew where she was going. Cathy stooped to pick up Violet’s backpack and they continued walking.
Only Ace and I remained where we were. He shook his head and grinned. “That went well, huh?”
I rubbed my face and shook my head. “No, it didn’t,” I said, but I began to laugh out of the sheer madness of his observation. “That went very bad.”
“The poor bastard,” said Ace. “You can’t blame him for wanting to avenge the death of his best friend. I would’ve done it just like he did. I’m sure of it.”
I stifled my fit of laughter and turned to face the house. “Do you suppose there are any more of them in there?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been out here since last night and those guys were the only people I saw, other than the folks that you saw out here. Still, we ought to go inside and take a look-see. Maybe we can find some guns and ammo in there.”
I nodded to the shotgun. “Do you think there are any more shells in that thing?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to run down to the shed and take a leak. My bladder is killing me. I’ll grab Scooter’s rifle. He won’t be needing it, not where he’s headed.”
I nodded and watched Ace jog off to the shed. The others were gathered inside the barn like sheep waiting to be led somewhere. I walked over and picked up the shotgun, careful not to look at the dead bodies. The smell of gunpowder and fresh blood hung in the air and I fought the urge to gag. The shotgun was spattered with blood and I brought it over to the lawn and wiped it down the best I could in the green grass. Ace appeared a moment later. He carried the rifle in one hand and a canvas satchel in the other.
“We’ve got half a dozen boxes of twelve-gauge shells in here,” he said, holding up the cream-colored bag. “And at least a hundred rounds for the rifle. Let’s make a quick search of the house. These people are starving. We’ve got to get some food into them.”
I nodded and we started walking up to the blue and white farmhouse. The house was smaller than my parents’ and could use a coat of paint, but it looked solid and full of good memories. We hadn’t been inside the house for thirty seconds before I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Whatever reservations I still held about the deaths of the three brothers were gone in a flash. We had entered a house of unspeakable horrors and death hid behind nearly every door we entered. Tears fell down the face of my new friend as we continued our search.
From the best I could tell, three generations of a family had been slaughtered here. Three men, presumably the grandfather, the father, and his son, were lying face-down on the floor of the living room. Two women, naked except for their socks, were sprawled out on the beds upstairs. Each had been shot multiple times. There were others, but I can’t bring myself to write about them. Their tiny images will haunt me for the rest of my days.
We returned to the kitchen and raided the pantry. There was bread there and a big jar of peanut butter. We filled a plastic trash bag with cans of soup and chili. I found a two-gallon jug of iced tea in the refrigerator and a sleeve of plastic cups in the cupboard. We continued filling the bag until we could no longer stand being in there. Ace rummaged the drawers and found a large meat cleaver. He hefted the jug of iced tea and nodded for me to take the bag. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” he said sadly.
We left the house and made our way up to the barn. Ace had been right about one thing—the people waiting for us were ravenously hungry. We set the food out on a long workbench and watched the feeding frenzy begin. Cathy and Violet sat on a bale of hay, looking lost and frightened. I turned away and caught Ace marching out the door. I followed him outside and stopped. He held the meat cleaver in one hand and walked straight for Scooter’s dead body. I grimaced as I watched Ace grab a handful of Scooter’s hair. He stepped back and delivered a savage blow to Scooter’s exposed neck. He repeated the process three times before the head was separated from the body. Ace then carried Scooter’s head down to his dead brothers and callously dropped it in the dirt.
Ace then repeated the grisly process two more times, first with Henry, then with Daryl. Henry’s head was already horribly mutilated and I wondered about the hatred inside Ace that gave him the fortitude to perform such an act. When he had finished hacking off Daryl’s head, he dropped the cleaver and carried the head down to one of the steel stakes that lined the driveway. Our driveway back at the farm had similar stakes we used each fall to hang the snow fence. Ace took Daryl’s head by the ears and impaled it on the stake. He then gave it a quick twist so Daryl was facing the road.
A minute later, Ace had the three heads mounted like Halloween jack-o-lanterns. Each faced the road and I had no doubt what his intended message was. I watched as Ace walked over to a watering trough and washed the blood from his arms and hands. He dried them off in some tall weeds and stared at
me out of the corner of his eye. I nodded back at him in approval.
“Bastards,” he spat, after walking back up to join me by the barn.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “Where were you headed when they caught you?”
“North Branch,” he said, eyeing me up. “What about you?”
“North Branch,” I repeated. “I think they’ve got my family there.”
“Small world … I’m hoping to find my wife and kids there. Most of these folks are headed there, too. I don’t know; do you think we should split up? Some of these people are pretty old.”
I shook my head. “You saw what happened in there. I’d rather die than let that happen to anyone else. You can do what you like, but I’m staying with the others.”
Ace nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Henry was stashing our guns somewhere out here in the barn. Let’s grab some chow and find those guns. You’re right, buddy. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
I shook my head. “Buddy’s dead,” I said, and I offered my hand to Ace. “My name’s Gary.”
“Ace,” he said and shook my hand.
He began to tell me his last name and I held my hand up to stop him. “First names only,” I said. “I think we’ll be safer that way. You know, in case any of us gets captured.”
“You’ve got a point there,” the cowboy said, scratching his chin. He then turned and walked up to the barn. I watched as the others stepped back and gave him a wide berth.
Chapter 12
Stealing Second (The Amendments Book One 1) Page 13