by Bryan Smith
Jorge wanted to weep in joy, such was the intensity of the relief he felt. He’d accomplished something truly incredible, defying astronomical odds. There was reason to celebrate, but now was not the time. Though it no longer seemed likely, the mountain man might yet return. Jorge wanted to be far away from the cabin if that happened. Also, he’d suffered a wide range of severe injuries. Getting to a hospital to receive emergency treatment as soon as possible was now his top priority.
Walking on his injured feet caused him excruciating pain, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. Someone—the mountain man, presumably—had closed the front door while Jorge was still asleep. Now he opened it and peered outside. The remaining tinges of darkness continued to seep out of the sky as dawn began to yield to sunrise.
As he’d suspected, the old truck, along with its attached camper, was gone, but a minivan was still out there in the clearing. Jorge backed into the cabin again, limped over to the body of Kelsey’s father, and knelt next to it, gritting his teeth and squealing in pain again as the muscles in his injured feet flexed and strained. He was whimpering as he searched the dead man’s pockets for his keys, but he experienced a moment of wild joy again when he found what he was looking for.
Before leaving, he spied his scalp on the floor near the dead mother’s body. He scooped it up and carried it with him as he went outside. It was almost certainly beyond salvaging at this point, but on the off-chance he might be wrong about that, he figured he should take it with him anyway.
He got behind the wheel of the minivan, put the key in the ignition, and started the engine. Working the gearshift and spinning the steering wheel, he got the vehicle turned around and pointed toward the way out. Before long, he was cautiously driving the minivan along the winding and perilous private drive. He’d been unconscious for the drive up to the cabin, so he hadn’t quite been mentally prepared for how harrowing the journey back out to the road would be, but somehow he managed to keep from driving the minivan off a side of the ridge.
An arm-bar gate was standing open at the end of the drive. It looked damaged, as if the mountain man had smashed through it with the truck. Jorge spent a moment wondering in which direction the madman might have gone, but decided it was another thing that didn’t matter. He doubted he’d be running into the man again regardless of which way he’d gone.
Taking a right out onto the road, he hit the accelerator, quickly picking up speed. Home was back the other way, but the closest hospital capable of dealing with the unusual level of trauma he’d endured was in this direction. He’d worry about alerting family members to his condition once he was in the hands of professionals.
He’d gone maybe three-quarters of a mile when an abrupt burst of siren noise made him jump in his seat. A glance at the rearview mirror revealed the flashing lights of a highway patrol car. Jorge felt a flicker of trepidation. He badly wanted to get to the hospital as fast as he could. On the other hand, he knew he was only marginally functional at this point. Letting the cops take over now might be for the best. He might wind up getting the help he needed even faster.
After pulling over to the road’s shoulder, he hit the button to lower the driver’s seat window and cut the engine. He leaned back in his seat with a groan and closed his eyes while he waited for the officer to approach. Despite the crippling pain, he felt a strange level of contentment. He’d exposed the Mendez family curse as the ridiculous myth it had always been. He’d never feel haunted by it again.
His eyes snapped open a few minutes later when a gruff voice asked him, “What the fuck kind of unholy abomination are you?”
Jorge gasped when he turned his head and saw the barrel of a gun pointed at his face. His brow creased in genuine puzzlement. “Why are you pointing that at me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
The officer was tall and broad-shouldered. His arms had the corded muscles of a dedicated weightlifter. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes and short tufts of blond hair were visible beneath the brim of his hat. A corner of his mouth curved in what looked like a perma-smirk.
The smirk deepened. “I’ll be the judge of that, Pancho.”
“My name’s not—”
“Shut up.”
The officer dipped his head lower and leaned closer to peer in at the minivan’s interior. “What is that on the passenger seat? Is that . . .” He took a hand away from the gun to remove his sunglasses, revealing piercing blue eyes. “My fucking god, is that a human scalp?”
Jorge was starting to get scared. He was sweating and his heart was galloping. For some reason, he thought about Rex, saw his sweet doggy face in his head. Why was this happening? Couldn’t this man see what kind of hell he’d been through? “Officer, I can explain.”
The officer slid his sunglasses back into place. “I don’t need an explanation. I’ve seen enough.”
He touched something on his tan uniform shirt.
Jorge frowned. “What did you just do?”
“Turned off my body cam.”
“But—”
The officer’s smirk was back. “This is why I love my job, opportunities like this, where I can dispense justice and spare the public the expense of an unnecessary trial.”
Jorge Mendez never heard the gunshot that blew apart his head and ended his life.
Around the same time Jorge was breathing his last, a fire ignited in the kitchen of a nearby cabin. It took some time for anyone to notice smoke from the fire and summon first responders. By the time they arrived, the cabin had burned to the ground. The bodies of the dead inside were soon discovered and, following a brief investigation, connected to the motorist who’d been killed while resisting arrest less than a mile from the scene.
From that point forward, Jorge would forever be known as the perpetrator of the so-called “Mountaintop Massacre.”
The loud and prolonged protests of his friends and family never made a difference.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to the following for a host of the usual reasons and not-so-usual reasons: Jennifer Smith, Jeff Smith, Keith Ashley, Brian Keene, Tod Clark, Paul Goblirsch, Ryan Harding, Matt Hayward, Anna Hayward, Bob Ford, Wesley Southard, Kristopher Triana, Lashon Miller, Carrie Nicely, Andersen Prunty, Brian Picard Sr, Christian Wood, Jordan Lindsey, Joseph Branson, and Scott Berke. Thanks also to the evolutionary forces and human ingenuity that led to the existence of dogs and the invention of beer, hockey, and horror movies.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bryan Smith is the author of numerous novels and novellas, including 68 Kill, Slowly We Rot, Depraved, The Killing Kind, Last Day, Dead Stripper Storage, Dirty Rotten Hippies and Other Stories, and Kill For Satan!, which won a Splatterpunk Award for best horror novella of 2018. Bestselling horror author Brian Keene described Slowly We Rot as, “The best zombie novel I’ve ever read.” A film version of 68 Kill, directed by Trent Haaga and starring Matthew Gray Gubler from Criminal Minds, was released in 2017. Bryan lives in Tennessee with his wife Jennifer and their many pets.
Follow him on Twitter at @Bryan_D_Smith and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/bryansmith/
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