by Taft Sowder
“Let’s get outta here!” One of them shouted. Seeming to think and move as one, they all turned and took off. Bobby heard their shoes slapping hard on the pavement beyond as they ran. Were they running to tell on Bobby? Hell no, they didn’t want to have to fess up that they had been hazing him for years. They were going home and going to pretend that nothing happened.
Bobby glared at the fallen fiend that lay, half propped up on one elbow before him. Something inside of him snapped, and he was no longer the calm and quiet child but now a raging animal that had been caged for far too long. He looked around for another rock, a stick, anything to further brutalize his prey. A couple feet away lay a thick, leafless branch that had fallen from the nearby oak tree. It looked sturdy, with nothing to slow down a good swing. Robert saw it too, his face turning red as the blood flowed down and dripped from his face. He scurried back until his back hit the earthen embankment that he had just leapt from. Here, it was too steep to walk up and nothing to hold onto but dirt and grass if he was to try to climb.
Bobby stood over him, the heavy, white oak stick in hand. He smiled a sinister smile. Bobby’s eyes were distant, almost as if he were no longer there, but replaced by something evil. A tear ran down Robert’s cheek.
Robert held up a hand, as if his frail arm would block a hard swing from that stick. It did not help. The stick came down and hit his arm hard. A loud snapping sound came as his arm went limp, broken at the forearm. He screamed in agony. The stick caught him again, this time across the chest. A wheezing gasp came as the wind was knocked from him. Again the stick came down, Bobby was merciless. It hit him hard. Again and again, in rapid succession, the stick pummeled the boy. When Bobby had finished the assault, he stepped back and gazed at his work. Robert lay motionless on the ground, his face nothing more than gore.
Bobby gazed with demented interest at the body that lay on the ground. “How does it feel,” he growled, his voice a rasping wind, “that the hunter has now become the hunted?”
In the distance, the chime of the church bell echoed faintly. It was late now, nearly five o’clock, and he had yet to make an appearance at home. Would his parents be pissed? His mind raced. What about Robert? That asshole will come to later, he thought. He can drag his worthless carcass back home all by himself.
Bobby ran to the creek, his hands felt sticky. There had been a lot of blood. He rinsed his hands and felt around until he found his glasses. When he put his glasses on, he saw the carnage for the first time. He turned and vomited.
Bobby wiped his mouth and then threw the stick into the water. He grabbed Tommy’s magazine and candy bar wrapper and hiked to the top of the hill that Robert had jumped him from. He turned and took one final look at the bully who had once been such a threat to him. In the fading light, he was a crumpled heap on the ground. Bobby sighed, his warm breath turning to a visible mist in cool October air. He shifted his backpack and pulled his thin jacket close around him and trotted off toward home.
A cool wind blew across the bloodied face of Robert Gashnaw. His chest moved as shallow breath came from his mouth. The pain was intense during the beating, now he barely felt anything. He saw nothing thanks to the blood in his eyes and swelling. It wouldn’t have done much good anyway; it was hard to see anything when one drifted in and out of consciousness. The bleeding continued, and his breathing became softer and softer. His muscles tensed. He stopped breathing.
A car drove by moments later on the road, not far from the stream. The tires spit small pebbles over the hill. The subtle exhaust note hummed as the car continued on its way.
Mister Fairfield looked at his passenger. God she was sexy, and he had just had her on her knees. He shook his head, smiling unintentionally.
She could feel his eyes on her. It might nauseate other young women, but this would be worth it. A blowjob a month to get a passing grade, this would be the easiest A she had ever gotten.
“Just ahead on the right.” She pointed. Her fake-fur lined jacket hugged her arm. Her legs were cold, but she loved to dress the part. It was about time to put the skirts away and have her father get her winter clothes out of the attic.
The car pulled up at the curb where the police car had been parked just hours earlier.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, looking at him with her big sparkly eyes.
“Maybe you could return the favor one day,” he replied with a perverted smile. She returned his smile, but with no enthusiasm. She stepped out of the car and waved with her fingers at him. As she stepped out, the front door of the house opened. Loretta stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her breasts.
“Where have you been young lady? Where is your brother?” She tapped her foot.
“Mom, this is Mister Fairfield, my history teacher from school. He gave me a ride home.” Mister Fairfield leaned across the front seat and waved. Loretta returned his friendly gesture. Jessica shut the door and crossed the lawn to the front porch.
“Not a bad looking man,” Loretta said, “but isn’t he a little old for you?” Jessica rolled her eyes as she stepped past her mom.
“I haven’t seen Bobby either.”
Her mother nodded. “I hope he gets home soon, you’re father isn’t here either.
“Great, what’s for dinner?”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Loretta turned and put her arm around Jessica as she shut the door. The two sauntered together into the kitchen.
* * * *
Bobby stood at the back of his house. He was dirty and bloodied. Blood spatter covered his jacket and spotted his face.
He looked for a way to get inside quietly without his mother finding out where he had been or seeing him like this. The left hand basement window sat slightly ajar. “Yes.” He clenched his fists and looked up into the darkening sky.
The basement was dark. It smelled, musty, but now a new scent wafted toward him a heavy scent that hung in the air overtop the other smells. He knew the scent, but he couldn’t place it.
He felt around in the dark, stumbling over objects in the way on the floor. He had to find a light; he had to clean the blood off at least. He clutched at the darkness; he knew that pull-string was there, all he had to do was find it. His fingers found the string dangling in space and he tugged on it. His eyes adjusted, and what he saw disturbed him. What he saw literally made his bladder lose control.
Chapter Five
There Bobby stood, staring at his father’s back, the kind of stare that parents get when their child walks in on them, mid-thrust. His father, a huge cleaver in hand and held high over his head, stood covered in dark red liquid. There was liquid on his hand and forearms and dried and somewhat crusty on the rest of his body. In the weak glow of the forty-watt bulb that hung overhead, a partially dismembered body lay on the work table. The same work table that Bobby and his father had once built a soapbox car on. Memories came back of the two of them building the car, and of the time he had to work on his bicycle. This was the table. Now it held a dismembered body and was covered in blood. The cleaver came down, fast and hard. It seemed as if the light had no effect on him. Why would he work in the dark? Not long ago, light from the late autumn sun glared through the basement windows.
Bobby stepped forward. “Dad?” His father brought up the cleaver and back down again. “Dad!” He said it louder. This time, his father turned. The wild look in his eyes told Bobby to step back. His father raised the cleaver again. Down it came through the meat of the arm and stuck in the table.
“Hello, son,” Herman said, nonchalantly.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?”
“Watch that tongue young man,” Herman replied and pulled the cleaver free. “I’m working, what does it look like?
“God, Dad, I didn’t know you brought dead people here and chopped them up. I thought you burned them and buried them.” Bobby stepped back into
the light. As he got closer to the table he saw it. The head that sat upright on the table looked just like his father. “Oh, God, you’re an alien!”
Herman burst out with laughter, a laughter that would send shivers down the spine. “An alien.” He laughed harder. “You have been reading those comics again, huh? I’ve told you about those. They’ll rot your brain. Just ask Uncle Bob, he used to read them. Would you like to see how rotten his brain is?”
“Uncle Bob? Is that Uncle Bob?”
“Oh, yes. Whose blood do you have on you?”
Bobby stepped back and got choked up. Should he tell the truth? What was going on? Bobby wondered.
“Dad, I’ve lied to you and mom. I lied about this guy that was bullying me at school. Those times I came home kind of beat up, it was him.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re telling me now, but that did not answer my question.”
“It’s him, it’s his blood.”
“Oh, yeah?” Herman looked at him with more interest. “Did you beat him good?”
Bobby smiled. “Oh, yeah!” After a moment of awkward silence he looked back up at his father. “Why did you kill Uncle Bob?”
“Son,” Herman put a bloodied hand on his shoulder, “your Uncle Bob was a bad man. He was going to try to bring harm to my family, and I just couldn’t allow that. He was going to try to take from us and never give back; you just don’t do family that way. So I,” Herman paused a moment and retrieved the short handled sledge hammer from beside the table next to the wall. “So I hit him with this hammer.”
Bobby eyeballed the old scratched up hammer, most of the scratches now filled in with dried blood. A chunk of scalp clung to the hammer like a person hanging on the side of a cliff. It fell free and landed on Bobby’s shoe. Gagging a little, Bobby brushed it off with his other foot.
“Why did you cut him up?” Bobby asked. Body parts lay scattered about. “You could have just cremated him, right?”
“Well, son,” Herman said, still as calm as ever, “that is a fine idea. I was so wrapped up in it, I didn’t think of it. I’ll keep it in mind.” Herman looked at his son, covered in gore. “Now let’s get ourselves cleaned up. What about that bully you beat up?”
“Dad, we may want to go look at him, I beat him real bad. He might be going to see Jesus tonight,” Bobby said; his voice barely above a whisper.
Herman chuckled. “Going to see Jesus; I didn’t think you had it in you. Let’s get cleaned up. We will go soon.”
“What about Uncle Bob?”
“We’ll leave him; I’ll clean him up later.” Herman ushered Bobby toward the wash basin near the washer and dryer. “Strip and clean up then it’s my turn.”
* * * *
“Where have you been, Bobby?” Loretta asked as Bobby emerged from the basement and rounded the corner into the kitchen. “Where’s your father?”
“I’m right here,” Herman said, rounding the corner behind his son. Herman was dressed in another black suit, his normal attire, even at home. Bobby was dressed in an old outfit that he hadn’t worn in near a year.
Nervousness overcame Loretta now, had he been here the whole time? She wondered. What if he heard me? God, what a fool I’ve been.
Her hands began to shake as she moved a steaming pot from the stove to the sink. Dumping the steaming water into the sink and with her back to them, she continued to talk. “I must not have heard you come in.”
“Must not have,” Herman replied.
“Bobby, where did you get that dreadfully, awful outfit?”
“Bobby had been playing rough outside and got his other clothes absolutely filthy. I got him all cleaned up; now we have to run and get his backpack, he forgot it down by the creek.” Herman more or less pushed Bobby toward the door.
“What about Frank, what did he have to say?” Loretta asked, still with her back turned.
“Not now, dear, I’ll tell you about it later.”
With that, the two were out the door. They rode in silence as there wasn’t much to be said. The hearse pulled up near the tree, the place where Bobby had left Robert lying. Bobby stayed in the car as Herman went to investigate. His stomach was in knots, but he knew that he had to remain calm, no matter the news.
“You did a good job beating him up,” Herman said to Bobby as he walked back toward the hearse.
Lightening flashed across the sky lighting up the darkness; they both jumped.
“Is he,” Bobby regained composure from the startling crack. “Is he going to see Jesus tonight?”
“Jesus, Satan, either way, one of them already has him.” Herman grabbed a black body bag out of the back end of the hearse where Bobby sat. At that moment, the rain began. It began to pour as if God himself was taking a piss on the murdering duo.
“What are you going to do?” Bobby asked loudly in order to be heard over the thrum of the rain.
“Don’t you worry about it.”
The body was stiff; it had been when he put it in the bag. Bobby was at home, about to enjoy a home-cooked meal, and the rain still poured down. Herman wrestled the bag to the edge of the hearse’s rear end. It wasn’t that the boy’s body was heavy, far from it. It was only that a stiff corpse was hard to maneuver, and he didn’t want any unnecessary breaks.
The train tracks weren’t far from the creek. In fact, the creek was fed from a river that the train had to cross, about a mile from where Bobby had left the boy to rest in peace. The tracks crossed a wide gorge, which Herman remembered being taught in school was created by the river’s fast flow and thousands of years of erosion. The river was lazy now and only really got to running when a bad storm came, like the one tonight. This was a perfect place to dump the body. If he was found, the fall itself would be enough to cause the damage to the face, and that would explain it all. The rain would wash away any evidence, and then Herman would dispose of the body with fire when his parents were told that he was far too busted up for an open casket funeral.
Herman unzipped the bag and dragged the body out. He needed to work quickly. No doubt, the parents had already phoned the police when their son had not returned home by nine o’clock or so. He took one last look at the beaten and bloody corpse, and then hefted the body over the side of the gorge. It tumbled; he watched as much as he could. The body disappeared into the inky darkness, some thirty feet down. He didn’t hear it hit the water below or make any kind of thud; the storm was far too loud.
On the way home, he passed several police cars that had their spot lights on, obviously looking for the boy. He’s back there, boys, Herman thought with a quiet chuckle.
He drove home and joined his family for supper. They were finishing up as he sat down. Loretta stayed behind, not so much to spend time with him, but to study him, to see if he knew what she had done.
“What do you say if I take my turn to cook tomorrow?” Herman said between bites. The potatoes were bland and lacked butter, the string beans were limp and lacked the snap that he so loved and the meatloaf was just that, meatloaf; a dry meatloaf without the thick ketchup like topping. He ate it anyway; he ate because he was famished, because he hadn’t eaten much all day.
“I’d say thank you,” Loretta replied. “What do you have in mind?” She asked as she scrubbed the dishes in the sink.
“Stew. I have a special recipe.”
* * * *
It was the next day, Friday. It was Halloween. Bobby had truly looked forward to Halloween all year long; his favorite holiday. The school had allowed everyone to dress up, reasonably. No masks, nothing to draw a lot of attention. The children in his class were all dressed up, and that seemed to thrill the teachers to no end. They all wanted pictures and to know why everyone had chosen the costume they had chosen. One teacher even made them write an essay on their character and why they chose that specific character.
&
nbsp; Bobby had chosen a vampire costume. He had been a vampire the last three years. He didn’t really have a reason other than it was just an easy costume. It wasn’t really scary, the traditional Count Dracula outfit. Like Bram Stoker’s horrific creature of the night, Bobby had fangs, a cape and white makeup on his face in an attempt to make him appear paler. As if he needed help. The bad part about it was that Robert had always picked on him about it, but now, Robert wasn’t there. This actually made him feel better.
The whole school had been buzzing, too, buzzing about Robert’s mysterious disappearance. Police had been at the school all day. They were interviewing everyone, teachers and students alike. This made Bobby fear for what he had done. What if one of them cracked? What if one of them told on him? Bobby had to make sure that didn’t happen.
Lunch time rolled around quickly, and the police hadn’t gotten to his class or to Robert’s goons. Bobby sat beside Tommy, who had hardly spoken to him all day. It was quite odd for such a chatterbox. Robert’s goons left as a group and went toward the boy’s restroom. No longer terrified of repercussions, Bobby stood.
“I’ll be right back.”
Tommy shrank back and continued to shovel food into his mouth from the bountiful feast that sat before him. He ate when he was troubled.
The restroom was quiet. Bobby stood at the door as it closed behind him. From around the corner of the wall to the left, he heard whispers and shuffling. He walked to the corner, emotions beginning to rush forward, not knowing what to expect. A tear ran down his cheek. He put a trembling hand on the wall to steady himself. There was more shuffling. He felt as if he might lose it again. No, damn it, he told himself, not here, not now.
He took a breath and rounded the corner. To the left, sat a row of stalls, all of the doors open; to the right, there was a row of urinals. Directly against the far wall, the three boys stood huddled together. Their whispers stopped as they saw him. They scowled at him.