by Sara Clancy
“You better hurry up, son,” Petya declared as he smacked a heavy hand down on Aleksandr’s shoulder. “You know how your mother gets when we keep her waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
Petya headed towards the vehicle without ever glancing behind. Warning alarms were blaring inside Aleksandr’s head, but not much could be done about it. He had to follow. Each staggered step helped him discover a new cut or bruise. At least nothing seemed to be broken.
He had barely crawled up onto the front passenger seat before his father patted his knee. The touch made Aleksandr’s stomach drop. Petya looked far too pleased with himself. Too excited. Nothing good had ever caused or followed that smile.
“Is Radmiar here?” he asked before trying to ease his stomach with a few mouthfuls of water. It briefly occurred to him that Olga may have spiked his canteen, but he was too thirsty to worry about that right now.
“What?” Petya looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “No. Of course not. We gave him a holiday for his birthday, remember?”
“Right,” Aleksandr said. God help anyone in the Philippines right now.
Despite knowing that he hadn’t, Aleksandr still tried to recall if he had been forced to buy or hang party supplies recently. Olga and Petya were very festive when their ‘good’ children came home. Balloons, streamers, party poppers; all Aleksandr needed was a glimpse of these items for him to break out in a cold sweat.
The engine roared and crisp, cool air gushed out of the vents. It ravaged the sweat on Aleksandr’s body and he shivered with delight. Finishing the last of his water, he reattached the canteen to his hip and set the rifle across his lap. The journey didn’t help to ease the anxiety clawing in the pit of his stomach. Petya was keeping his silence and that same, self-satisfied smile seemed permanently fixed on his face. As the sensation grew, he began to stroke his bloodied fingers over the body of his rifle.
A notion played around the edge of his awareness. A thought he tried to ignore but only grew stronger. He wished that he could use it. It wasn’t the first time he had thought about killing his father. If anything, he had an ever-increasing array of fantasies of how he would do it. That was a dangerous game. It was all too easy for fantasies to become obsessions. And when that change happened, the lines between right and wrong, justice and cruelty, all blurred together. Living with his family, he had learned how integral fantasy was to their ‘games’. They were the starting point and the driving force. And it left Aleksandr very weary of holding any daydream too close.
Still, he couldn’t help the indulgence. The whole trip back to the ghost town, he allowed fantasies to take over his mind. One shot to the temple would do it, he thought, imagining the way Petya’s head would explode like a ripe melon. Images flashed across his mind’s eye, each one of how he might be able to get to Olga while the element of surprise was still on his side. Of course, it was just fantasies. Even if he and the twins escaped their parents, there would still be all of his older siblings to deal with. Killing them was only trading two serial killers for four. Sliding his fingers over the hard metal, he found the safety and flicked it on.
With a final lurch and a grunted roar from the engine, the jeep bounced over the last of the dunes and the houses came into sight. It made it very clear to Aleksandr just how long he had been contemplating the issue. He was spending an increasing amount of time debating the thought and that, in itself, was dangerous. If he was going to get the twins out, he needed to be smart about it. Have a plan. Bide your time. He repeated those words a few times until he felt like it had finally sunk in. Impulsiveness led to death. He had seen that lesson in action.
These familiar thoughts had consumed his mind, shoving everything else aside. A monster of his imagination didn’t seem like much of a threat when there was one of blood and flesh sitting next to him. Odds were that it was a combination of dehydration and lack of sleep. Both things that could be easily rectified. But not right now. Not as they were weaving their way through the houses.
Keeping his face down, he glanced up through the mattered tangles of his fringe. Petya was keeping to the roads. Two streets down was the safe house he had left the twins playing in. His heartbeat grew faster as Petya drove past one intersection and kept going. Carefully keeping all reactions from his face, Aleksandr’s fingers tightened around the rifle’s grip. The house was now only five buildings away. Studying Petya out of the corner of his eyes, Aleksandr couldn’t decide if he should be concerned or not.
Three buildings down. Did he find them alone? Did they mouth off? Two buildings. Did he finally notice that Nadya was developing? The last house passed by and they were in front of the hiding place. Petya slowed the jeep and Aleksandr clicked the safety off. Broken shards of glass still hung in the window frames like rotten teeth. What remained reflected the sunlight like mirrors. It was a slight distraction but not enough to keep anyone from seeing inside. Hoping that his desert sunglasses hid his eyes as well as they battled against the glare, Aleksandr risked a look to the house more than once. He checked every window for a sign of movement. Silently willed his twins to hide well. Petya slowed the car again and Aleksandr slipped a finger under the safe guard to wrap it around the trigger.
The jeep’s wheel hit the curb as Petya cut the corner and continued down the road. He watched the safe house dwindle away in the rear view mirror before drawing in a breath again. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he felt the weight of Petya’s evaluating stare. Hoping to look sufficiently bored, he began to toy with the safety, flicking it on and off at random. It was a habit that Petya himself had and with any luck, he would decide that there had been no threat behind the movement. He didn’t dare look if the rouse worked. Just kept his head down and continued to flick the switch.
Petya abruptly hit the brakes. Aleksandr’s hand shot out to brace against the dashboard as his head shot up. Instantly, he was on edge and alert. Petya had brought him to the newest ‘boxing ring’. It’s too soon, Aleksandr tried to tell himself. He was still busted up from the last fight. Olga didn’t mind the game being rigged one way or another. Petya, however, insisted that it cheapened the sport.
Holding his rifle tight against his chest, Aleksandr looped one arm around the barrel to nip at his thumbnail. The taint of dirt and gunmetal assaulted his tongue. The vile taste wasn’t enough to keep him from chewing on the nail as he slowly followed his father to the building. The weather-beaten walls hadn’t been enough to keep the desert at bay. It had crept in through the gaps and cracks, covering the floor and leaving little difference between the inside and out. The few clusters of thin shadows didn’t bring any relief to the stifling heat. Aleksandr lingered a few steps behind his father, as far back as Petya would allow, and slipped off his sunglasses.
Repeated use had carved a pathway through the sand of the hallway. Each doorway of the lesser used rooms was all but blocked off by the mounds of red sand. Fine top layers flaked off with the slightest breeze to dance in the air, giving it a strange hue. Aleksandr hated the distortion. It almost looked like the place was full of steam. Each time he was led into this house, he found himself glad that he didn’t share his younger brother’s imagination. Even without being prone to flights of fancy, Aleksandr couldn’t get it out of his head that they were walking down into Hell. Or Hades. Or whatever nightmarish landscape was probably waiting for all of them when they finally get to die. The twins will go somewhere better, he corrected himself as he chewed his nail. That thought made him smile slightly. Just the slightest twitch of his lips. Even that died the moment they turned the corner into the kitchen. Olga stood by the basement door.
“What’s going on?” Aleksandr asked around his nail.
“We’ve got a surprise for you,” Olga said with a glorious smile.
“Why?” he asked.
Petya barked a laugh before he opened the basement door with a flourish, the motion sending a fresh gust of sand into the air. Aleksandr regretted taking his sunglasses off
as the particles ground against his eyes.
“Do you really think that we’d forget your birthday?” Petya asked.
Olga beckoned him closer with a wave of her hand and that unmovable smile of hers. Obeying made his skin crawl, but he managed to pull it off. And even succeeded in hiding his cringe when she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You did remember to get something for Radmiar, right?” she asked.
“Yes. Couldn’t forget my twin’s birthday.”
Apparently wanting to keep their surprise to themselves, neither of his parents turned on the basement light. It left everything as a deep, all-consuming pit. They let him lead the way, which wasn’t a task that he particularly relished. He didn’t need to know what the surprise was to know that he didn’t want any part of it. As the stairs creaked, the sounds rolled over the wall and echoed back to them. Nothing stirred. Is that a good sign or a bad one? He decided that it didn’t really matter. The conclusion would be the same in the end.
The battered wood of the stairs gave way to the bare concrete of the basement floor. It was perhaps the only place in the entire town that was not coated with sand. Stale blood and stifling humidity made it hard to breathe. Swallowing thickly a few times helped to suppress the impulse to gag. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, leaving him to move by memory alone to stand in the middle of the room. He had never really had a security blanket as a child but was aware of the concept. Now, he clutched at the rifle as if it were a cherished teddy bear.
Straining to hear everything around him, Aleksandr noticed the creak and shuffle of his parents moving about the space. Under it all, there was something else. The faintest trace of a third person’s heavier breathing. Whomever his parents had down here, they had been here for a while. The heat alone made it hard to stay in this room for any extended period of time. Blind, sweating, and quickly wearing his nail down to the flesh, Aleksandr could only wait for what was to come next. Tension twisted up his stomach and squeezed his chest.
Surrounded by darkness, it was easy for his mind to convince him that the monster was in the room now. A soft sobbing broke the stillness. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. Thin traces of blood joined the grimy tastes assaulting his tongue. It didn’t stop him from chewing on the quickly depleting nail. The crying grew louder. Turn the light on, already. He sent the thought out as a shout. The crying had turned into a wail, shrill and hopeless, and far harder to ignore. Few things twisted up his nerves like that special brand of desperate bawling. Hooking his tooth around the edge of his broken nail, he bit down. Perhaps it was the pain of peeling skin, but he didn’t notice the shift at first. Whoever was crying, was moving. Coming closer. Didn’t they lock him up? His heart skipped a beat as it hit him that this could be the change they were so excited about. Perhaps the fight was no longer contained within the concrete room. They let you keep your gun. No sport in that. So, what did they give him?
Snapping his hand down from his mouth, he grabbed his gun and flicked off the safety. Controlling his breathing, he strained to catch the slightest traces of movement. Any shuffle of feet was lost under the now howling wails. The walls rang with the sound, making it impossible to tell where it was coming from. All he knew was that it was approaching. Slowly but steadily. As swift as a phantom. Aleksandr didn’t know if he should inch back or move forward. The crying was desperate but filled with a rage that cut him to the core and held him solid. A spike of fear coursed down his spine and he couldn’t keep his thoughts clear anymore. Everything was devoted to the demonic creature in the desert. Its deformed, feral face. Claws and fangs. Wings that dominated the sky. The crying was closer now and no longer sounded human. He couldn’t pinpoint what was off about it. But he knew. He could feel it. Whatever was creeping closer to him, wailing and raging, had no trace of humanity. It could try and mimic one, but it wasn’t. It was old. Powerful. Full or unrelenting, unbridled hatred. With a strong thud and the crackling hum of electricity, the overhead lights flickered on. A glaring white light flooded the room, driving into his eyes like a thousand needles and he knew. The monster was right beside him.
Chapter 7
Aleksandr whipped around, breathing heavy and rifle lifted at the ready. His ears rung as the crying came to an abrupt end, but there was enough for him to still hear his parents both yell ‘ta-da’. They weren’t exactly in unison, but there was a solid attempt, and that was a warning sign in itself. Using his long fringe as a shield against the glare, it allowed his eyes to adjust quickly. Still, he squinted hard, making shapes out of the blinding light. His parents came into view and neither of them was disturbed by his raised rifle. Their laughter was harsh and loud, as well as their insults, but Aleksandr didn’t pay much attention to either. His focus was on catching sight of the monster. There was nothing beside him. Nothing on the ceiling or walls. It wasn’t until he had assured himself that it had all been in his head that he noticed his ‘present’.
His gut gave a hard twist when he noticed a woman in the cage. Not a man. Hindsight told him that he should have seen this coming. He had vague memories of her being tossed onto the ground last night. But his focus had been on Ivan then and he hadn’t spared her much thought. Also, there was one glaring reason that this had blindsided him.
“I don’t understand,” Alek said in a soft voice. Loud enough to be heard but not enough to seem like a challenge.
“Alek,” Olga sighed as she crossed the floor. One of her hands made the way to the back of his neck while the other rubbed his chest. Both points of contact made him equally uncomfortable. “I think you’ll agree that we have been very accepting of this little phase you’ve been going through. But enough is enough. You’re going to be twenty. That’s far too old for such childishness.”
The woman in the cage couldn’t have been out of her teens yet. Close, but not fully. Beyond age and gender, there wasn’t much to her that would spark his parents’ attention. She was too solid, too strong. They preferred willowy beauties. This girl’s arms rolled with thick but compact muscle. Her legs were short but strong and well defined. Even hunched as she was to fit into the tight confines of the pet cage, the muscles of her stomach pressed right against the smooth skin of her exposed abdomen. She was anything but lithe. If it weren’t for his own well-worked shoulders and arms, there wouldn’t have been a part of Aleksandr’s body that she didn’t have beat.
Petya strolled across the room toward the cage. The woman’s dark eyes watched his every step with a keen focus. She might have been prepared for him to smack his hand down against the top of the metal, but it didn’t stop her from flinching. A deep scowl twisted her lips and her eyes narrowed. To her credit, she didn’t cower.
“Look at her, Aleksandr,” he boasted. “Those arms, those legs, that stomach. She can pass for a man.”
“So, I’m a gateway murder?”
A stony silence settled over the room. It wasn’t uncommon for the victims to talk. Mostly screaming and begging and desperate wails. Sass was new. And something that no one seemed to know how to respond to. Biting down hard on his nail, Aleksandr watched his father intensely, waiting for a cue on how to respond. After a stunned blink, Petya let out a booming laugh and slapped the top of the cage again. It rattled on its wheels and the girl braced herself.
“Yes, you are. Consider yourself lucky. You’re going to make my boy a man.”
The muscles of the girl’s neck twitched as she clenched her jaw tightly.
“She’s still a woman,” Aleksandr said softly.
Stealing glances at Petya, Aleksandr silently begged the man to take the excuse. To let him continue to exploit the loophole.
“Alek,” Olga purred.
He flinched. “I just don’t like killing women.”
“That’s a bit sexist,” the woman noted.
Again, she gained everyone’s attention instantly. Tension was in her muscles, her pose, the way she hunched like a cornered animal. But none of it reached her voice. There were no tears
or sobs. Every word was carefully constructed to sound almost like a casual conversation. Olga and Petya shared a quick, amused glance. Aleksandr lowered his gaze to the floor by his feet. It didn’t stop the memories of the glee his parents took in breaking the strong, or even just those who pretended to be, from flashing across his mind’s eye. She’s going to regret this, he thought.
“Why yes, my dear.” Petya’s attempt to sound like a game show host thickened his accent. “It is. I do apologize, we did not intend to raise him that way. He’s a little slow. Although I think you could guess that yourself with just a glance.”
Looking up right then would have been a very stupid decision. Petya only used such vague and limited insults when his attention was fractured. No need to give him any reason to sharpen it.
“But you’re going to help him rectify that,” Petya continued. He crouched down and wiggled his finger in front of the bars of the cage. “Once he kills you, all will be right.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Aleksandr watched in confusion and horror as the girl mockingly mimicked Petya’s movements and chirp, “Goodie.”
A deep growl rumbled in Olga’s chest, but whatever she was about to say was lost under Petya’s amused laughter. Still, her hand became a claw upon the back of Aleksandr’s neck, her sharpened nails cutting into tender skin. Aleksandr suppressed his wince and went back to chewing his nail.
“Aleksandr!”
He snapped his head up to his father’s disapproving cry. Standing straight, his arms wide, his father tipped his head to the side.
“You don’t seem excited,” Petya said.
Aleksandr decided it was best not to answer. His mother, however, was of a different mind. Rubbing a hand across the expanse of Aleksandr’s chest, she pressed closer to his side. Aleksandr hid his discomfort as best as he could. It was all a grotesque deformity of affection. The motions were off. Too much, too little. An attempt to replicate a concept she could never truly understand.