by Paul Cave
Rivers dropped the bar to his side. Took one last look at the charred remains, and then turned his attention to the stairway.
He was taking them, two, three, at a time.
Chapter Forty-Seven
He was too late. And the amount of blood gave him little hope initially. Yet, as Rivers looked towards the stricken deputy, he could see her move, arms pulling at her bonds, and feet kicking into mud. She had real fire in her eyes, too.
“Meadows!” he bellowed.
The ghoul turned to face him – face a hellish mixture of glee and accomplishment.
“Don’t hurt her,” Rivers said. A foolish statement in some respects, as the blood around him was proof that the blade had already gone to work. However, he had not wanted to use the word ‘kill’ – did not want to plant that idea into Meadows’ head, even though those roots of evil intent had probably already grown deep enough to reach into each and every one of Meadows’ cells.
“Let her go,” he said.
Rivers was at the base of the tower – at its edge, unwilling or unable to step further. Meadows is what held him there. Not by the fear of his old friend’s wrath, but rather the thought of becoming just like him.
Had Agent Orange leached its dioxin into his bones too? Was he a dead man walking also, just not quite there yet? At the back of that race and not leading the way like Meadows and Magnotta had been.
Time still on his side.
But not by much.
He was weak and injured – yes, but that was from the bullet wound, and subsequent fever. He had felt fine just one day prior.
Rivers held the metal bar up in a challenging gesture. Jabbed it up and down like some barbaric warrior. Waved his old friend towards him.
“Well,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”
Meadows grinned. His teeth a snarl. He flipped the switchblade from one hand to the other. And then back again. He pointed the tip towards the deputy.
“You like my pet?” Meadows mocked, his knife almost touching the skin of her cheek.
“Don’t,” Rivers said.
Rivers could feel his heart knocking against his ribs. His feet took a small step closer. The rain was falling just in front of him – a drizzle of what it had been earlier, yet still capable of turning him into a savage.
Dare he risk it?
Meadows had the knife at Anderson’s eye. He was holding it mere millimetres away from her exposed orb.
“I have money!” Rivers stated.
He pointed to the Ford’s trunk.
“I’ll give it to you. If you don’t harm her,” he said.
Meadows paused. The switchblade hovering dangerously close.
Meadows looked interested.
Rivers pushed the fact. “Fifteen grand. Get you a long way away from here.” He stepped backwards to bring himself next to the Ford. He popped the trunk. The small satchel was still there. Money within.
“Here,” he said, dropping the money bag to the ground.
Meadows moved away from the VW. Tried to see what the bag contained.
Too dark for him to see with any real clarity. “Toss it over,” he said.
Rivers shook his head. “No way. Release the woman first.”
Meadows turned back. Anderson was still glaring at him. Her eyes filled with rage. The cuffs rattled noisily as she tried to break free.
Meadows looked trapped between indecision, and Rivers welcomed the fact. Two things that drove the human disposition: lust and greed.
Which one would be Meadows’ undoing?
“It’s all yours,” Rivers said. “All you have to do is come and get it.”
That pale face looked from one to the other. Tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.
Rivers kicked the bag closer. Come on motherfucker, he thought. Take the bait.
Meadows was coming. The woman tethered to the fender momentarily forgotten. That lustful need eclipsed by a more human need – the need for money.
Rivers tightened his grip around the metal bar. He did not care about the cash – not one iota, yet the deputy’s wellbeing was of the uttermost importance. A good person. Bright with intelligence. And someone who had unquestionable integrity.
Meadows was coming. That knife of his glinting with a shock of white lightning, and his eyes full of demented need.
Rivers readied himself. Took a deep breath. Rolled his shoulders. Tension there lessening slightly.
This was it.
The end.
Rivers felt it. Deep within his being. Meadows had been the thing of deepest dread. The dark cloud that had tarnished his mood over these late hours.
Meadows cleared the base of the tower. His boots splashing with mud and water, and his legs catching the splatter of muck. His knife cut through the darkness, its razor-sharp tip ready to bury itself into flesh and bone.
Rivers waited. Counted off the yards as Meadows came. Then, once his foe had come within distance, he hit out with the metal bar, hips twisting and arms outstretched, like the form of a baseball player, and he huffed with effort as the weapon connected with Meadows’ skull.
A sharp crack sounded. Meadows staggered to one side, the impact knocking him sideways, and the bar bringing forth a sputter of blood.
The headwound sent a torrent of crimson liquid cascading down the side of his face. Yet, it was a mere flesh wound compared to the bullet that had destroyed bone and brain matter, nothing more than an irritation really, which was easily brushed aside.
Meadows laughed. A sound that chilled the blood in Rivers’ veins.
“That the best you got?” Meadows asked, eyes remaining clear and focused, the impact hardly registering as pain or otherwise.
In the next second, the Vietnam Vet was upon him. That blade of his flashed brightly, razor’s edge looking to split flesh and tissue, and knocking Rivers backwards with this sudden force of attack.
The metal bar slipped from his fingers. The mud at his feet happy to claim it, as the heavy object sank beyond view.
Rivers tried to twist away, his back coming around to block the knife and its clear intent. A sharp, cold, pain sent a shockwave of agony at his flanks, the blade cutting deep towards his liver.
Meadows was on top of him. Demented strength pushing Rivers’ face first towards the ground. A shock of cold muck hit him, a mixture of foul water and muddy soil, yet the water here had none of those healing qualities. Too dirty and contaminated. Only his lungs shuddered, the oxygen they needed suddenly cut-off and his chest heaving with the loss.
The ghoul was laughing crazily - the advantage his, and Rivers almost spent.
The darkness was ready to take Rivers. It had been waiting. Perhaps since the early 70s, when the Private had been lost and an easy target to those that pursued him.
He could not breathe, this darkness thick and unforgiving, and something that could not be easily outrun.
Rivers opened his mouth, lungs desperate to feel the relief of clean air, yet only a thick, choking mess of mud and foul water filled his mouth.
The cold muck flooded into the back of his throat. He choked on it, that earthy taste sending his lungs into a spasm.
Fingers dug themselves into his scalp. Hands pushing him deeper into the dark, wet, mush that parted to smother him.
Panic sent a burst of energy to his limbs. He tried to push himself up, out of the mud, but Meadows’ greater strength held him there.
Blackness took him. A vast emptiness that wanted him to itself. This void wanted to be fed – an appetite that could never be satisfied, and it drew him closer with every single heartbeat that he had left.
Bright lights burst behind his eyelids. The oxygen in his brain almost totally exhausted. Soon now, he would be gone. A memory to be forgotten. And this thought sent a second of dread to his soul.
Nobody would be mourning his passing.
Rivers felt the last of his energy filter away, the mud and rainwater taking his dying breath in a smothering kiss.
&nbs
p; He had a moment of total fear – he had failed. The deputy would surely be next. And then who would come after that?
The darkness deepened, and the promise of failure welcomed him with open arms.
Suddenly, the weight shifted from him, and the mouthful of choking, wet soil fell from his lips.
Rivers looked up. The darkness clearing in a heartbeat. Meadows was being dragged away. Something huge had him in its jaws. The Brown Bear. Muzzle wide and teeth embedded into the veteran’s shoulder.
Meadows was crying out. This pain real and agonising. Bones snapped in an audible crunch, and those screams became louder.
The bear threw Meadows aside, where he spun crazily to crash against the supports of the tower. More bones broke, his ribcage shattering into fragments and splinters. Blood exploded from his lips. Internal bleeding filling every gap and space that his body could offer.
Meadows collapsed onto the ground. The bear was snorting and grunting with something akin to delight. Its enormous muzzle parted, and massive teeth burst through the nape of is neck. His spine snapped in two – his brainstem severed in half.
Rivers could only watch on.
The Brown Bear looked massive under the confinements of the base. Its flanks shifted with a muscular ripple of movement, and Rivers could see that some of the fur had been burnt away. Yet, the flesh underneath the scorched fur had a healthy tinge to it. The rain was doing its job.
Meadows’ limbs twitched spasmodically as the bear carried him to the edge of the forest.
Meadows was gone. The night giving him up to the darkness of the tree line. Both bear and killer disappearing into the underbrush.
And like the memories of the forgotten, that was the last of them.
Chapter Forty-Eight
It took him a while to gather his wits. The sudden return of the bear felt surreal, and Rivers stood there half expecting to wake from a dream. Yet, the most real dream he had ever had. He could still taste the earth, and teeth popped now and then, as tiny bits of grit shifted about his mouth.
He had two pains, one on either side. The dull throb from the bullet wound, and the fresh bite of Meadows’ blade. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, his breath coming in gulps and hitches, and this new pain almost too intense to take.
He had been mortally wounded.
The blade had pierced his liver.
Rivers staggered away from the Maverick, his boots cutting lines in the mud, rather than leaving clear footprints. He almost fell to his knees, but somehow, he managed to reach one of the base structures of the tower.
“Anderson,” he wheezed, weakness stealing his voice.
The deputy lay still. Her head had dropped to one side, and her legs were bent beneath her. She was half-twisted – the cuffs that bound her to the vehicle’s fender forcing her body into an awkward position.
Rivers took a breath. Steadied himself.
“Deputy,” he called, louder this time.
Her chin just rested against her chest.
Rivers tried to see if her chest moved or not. He could not tell, the distance and poor lighting unwilling to disclose such a fact.
What could he do?
Rivers looked outwards, towards the clouds above. The night was still holding on, but not for much longer. He could see the faint hint of daylight just waiting to break in the far east.
The rain was still falling – but as a fine mist, not the torrent of earlier.
He had a choice to make.
Wait here for the rain to stop and hope help arrived too.
Or take his chances and risk the real possibility of turning like the others had.
He did not think help was coming.
Nobody knew they were here, for one. Would they even come if they did? What was the rest of the world like?
Rivers did not think it would be overrun by killers and monsters. The storm could not have been a global thing. Maybe it was just here, in this county, where things had tipped towards the realms of a nightmare.
The town of Hope Springs came to mind.
Not far.
Maybe the storm had missed the town, and the residence there had had a peaceful night’s sleep. Or they could have been awakened to the screams and cries of loved ones.
Either way, Rivers did not want to die here. What would the authorities think when their bodies were eventually discovered? That a crazed Vietnam veteran and bank robber had gone on a murderous killing spree.
Rivers did not want that. His parents deserved better. Maybe he would still end up in jail, his crimes up north warranting such punishment, but at least he’d be alive. He preferred the thought of his parent’s shame, rather than that of heartbroken grief.
Pushing himself away from the tower, he took a step closer to the mist that fell.
He closed his eyes.
Held his palms out flat, turned towards the sky.
“Fuck it,” he said, taking his next step.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The sky was losing its battle to hold on to the night. The horizon in the east had already pushed the darkness away, and the hint of sunlight had started to burn its way upwards. The storm had passed also, rain and wind finally exhausting themselves out. Just a gentle breeze blew, and the ground had started the cycle of cleansing itself of the oily residue that had battered it overnight. Thin whisps were starting to appear – here and there – as the warming of air turned water into vapour.
Ben Ronald sat on the step outside the diner. His trusted mutt – Cal, was nestled in his lap.
The trucker took a deep breath, his nostrils filling with the freshness that came with dawn. He had to keep forcing his eyes to focus on anything but the mess that had been trodden into the mud. Not an easy task, but he was unwilling to spend another second inside the diner. The stench of congealing fat, blood, and other bodily fluids were enough to make him gag.
He felt the first rays of sunlight on his face. Their warmth reminding him that he was still here, alive, and the nightmare of last night now over.
The knife was still embedded in his shoulder, the arm on that side dangling uselessly. He had tried to move the body of the young man who had had his throat slit, but Ben found him too heavy to move. Instead, Ben had been forced to go inside the room. A young woman was laid out at the side of the bed, her eyes glazed, and mouth slack.
Ben did his best not to look too closely. He pulled the sheet from off the bed, and used it to cover the young man as best he could.
Now, he just wanted to sleep. Needed to find an escape from the agony that filled his shoulder. He closed his eyes, and the darkness wanted to take him.
Cal barked, and Ben’s eyes fluttered open.
“Easy – boy,” Ben said, patting the mutt with his good hand.
Lids drooped again, and again the mutt barked him back to consciousness.
Something else came then – the sound of an engine. It started as a faint hum, somewhere off towards the highway, but slowly it grew as the engine noise became more of a groan than a murmur.
Ben looked towards the noise. A mail truck came into view, blue in colour, and cab swaying, as wheels dropped in and out of the potholes that dotted the roadway.
The sun shone brightly off the windshield, and Ben struggled to make out the driver. The truck drove past Ben and the gas pumps, took a wide circle around the front of the motel – narrowly avoiding what had once been Maggie – to stop facing back the other way.
A guy hopped out of the cab. He had a uniform on, like the blue that painted the truck, and a cap pulled over his head.
“Morning,” the mailman said, in a chirpy voice.
Ben managed a weak grumble of acknowledgment.
“Is Luka about?” the man asked, that sunny disposition giving his words a flute-like tone to them.
Ben almost told him that Luka could be found around the back. Flat out dead. His face planted firmly in the mud. However, he simply did not have the energy left to share such horrors.
> “Gone to town,” Ben said, simply.
The mailman looked surprised.
“Took Maggie with him. Said something about they were almost flat out of stock.” His eyes twitched briefly to the sodden mess on the road.
The mailman looked to relax, his face becoming a smile again, Ben’s use of known names, regular customers, seemingly offering the support required.
The mailman handed something to Ben – a large brown envelope.
“When he gets back, could you give him this?” he asked. “Tell him I’m sorry it’s a day late. The storm slowed everything down.”
Ben reached out, the movement slow and over-exaggerated, the pain flaring suddenly. He took the envelope.
“You okay?” the mailman asked.
Ben shifted his eyes to the hilt that protruded from his shoulder.
“Oh – my,” the mailman said, his face collapsing into instant worry. “I’ll get help,” he said, his feet shuffling awkwardly, as his brain struggled to analyse what his eyes were seeing.
“Appreciate it,” Ben said, with a tip of his head. Bring lots of help, was what he thought. And body bags too.
The mailman spun on his heels, this unexpected urgency sending him back to the truck. The truck popped into gear and it rolled past Ben, before taking on more speed as it bounced and rocked along the roadway.
Ben watched it go. Listened for as long as he could once it had rounded the bend, the engine noise dwindling slowly, once distance had been put between the two of them.
Cal was sniffing at the envelope. Whiskers twitching eagerly.
Ben eyed it for a while. Then he tore a rough strip from the top. He tipped the envelope over and something fell out in a flutter of pages.
A calendar – next year’s. 1982.
Ben turned the calendar over to its first page. Just the year to be found there. He flipped the page over to reveal all the days in January. The top half of the page had a photograph of a young woman holding a stapler in her hand. Her face had a pantomime look to it – eyes bright, and luscious lips shaped into an O of surprise. The teeth of the stapler were opened with the woman’s nipple poking through.