Casket For Sale

by Jeff Strand

  Roger let go of the board. “Pulling isn’t working. We’ll have to push.”

  I’d really hoped he wasn’t going to suggest that. We climbed out of the pit and moved to Samantha’s side. Though her face was firm with resolve, her arms were shaking and she was panting.

  “Roger, I love you…”

  Roger swung his legs over the side of the pit.

  “What are you doing?” Samantha demanded.

  “I’ve never had the chance to experience a good old-fashioned spiked pit,” said Roger, jumping down and bracing his arms against the board. “Andrew, get me stuff to wedge against the bottom.”

  I gathered up several branches and dropped them into the pit. Roger kicked away the cellophane and used his foot to shove them underneath the board as best he could.

  It didn’t look like anything was going to hold.

  Roger looked up at me, his face already covered with perspiration. “When she gets her foot free, pull her out of here.”

  Samantha gave a couple of hard tugs. “It’s not coming loose.” She tugged several more times in rapid succession, gasping in pain with each one. “Roger, get out of here! I mean it!”

  “You can do it,” Roger insisted. “Keep trying!”

  “It’s not coming free! Damn it, Roger, you’re going to die!”

  I can’t believe I’m going to do this, I thought.

  “If I get poked by so much as one solitary spike, I’m kicking both of your asses,” I said, dropping into the pit.

  I crouched down, scraping my face against one of the spikes. It was the same side that had been cut by the shrapnel from the exploding camper. Nice.

  I reached down and grabbed Samantha’s lower leg with both hands, trying to ignore the spike poised to gouge out my eye, then pulled as hard as I could.

  Her foot popped free.

  The board moved back an inch. While none of them broke the skin, spikes poked me in at least four places. To keep a sunny outlook on things, I noted that none of those places were my eye. I stood up and pressed my hands against the board.

  “My, this was a splendid idea,” I proclaimed, using my foot to try and wedge more branches underneath the board. “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if the bad guys showed up right about now?”

  There was virtually no room to maneuver, but I managed to turn myself around with only a few nasty scrapes, and pulled myself out of the pit.

  “Give me your hands,” I told Samantha.

  “Go ahead,” said Roger. “I’ve got it.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  Samantha hesitantly lifted her hands. Roger grunted at the additional strain but managed to keep the spikes out of his body. I grabbed Samantha’s wrists and pulled her out of the pit.

  His girlfriend was safe, but Roger was still in a bit of a pickle.

  “These branches aren’t going to hold it,” Roger said, voice cracking.

  I quickly sat down on the edge of the pit. “Maybe we can hold it with our legs.” I braced my feet against the board and then tightly gripped the edge of the pit with my hands to hold myself in place.

  “Have you got it?” Samantha asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll help.” She sat down on the other side of Roger and placed both of her feet against the board. Her right shoe was completely red.

  “Roger, on the count of three, let go and get out of there,” I said. “One… two… three!”

  Roger let go of the board and turned around.

  I felt my knees begin to bend.

  Samantha let out an agonized whimper.

  Roger tried to scramble out of the pit.

  My grip was beginning to loosen.

  Roger was halfway out.

  “Hurry up!” I said, as if he’d been lollygagging.

  Just as Roger got his legs safely out of the way, I lost my grip. The board hurtled forward, pushing Samantha and I off balance, and slammed into the wall of the pit.

  “Whoa!” Roger shouted.

  “Whoa,” I said in agreement.

  Tears streamed down Samantha’s face. I couldn’t imagine how badly her foot must hurt. Even hellspawn felt pain. “Are you okay?” Roger asked, putting his arms around her.

  She nodded then turned her head and spit out some blood. “I bit my tongue trying not to scream.”

  I stood up, still breathing heavily. “Is there any chance that you can walk?”

  “No, but I can hop with the best of them.” She suddenly looked horrified. “Helen and the kids! Where are they? Are they okay?”

  “I… I’m sure they’re fine, but I don’t know. Were you able to call the police?”

  Samantha shook her head. “I dropped the phone when I got shot. I’m sorry.”

  “Crap.” I should have protested when Helen offered to give her the phone. Of course, I also should have avoided tipping the camper on its side. “I need to go on ahead in case they’re already at the store. You two stay here, out of sight.” I stripped out of my shirt and handed it to Roger. “Here, use this to help clean up her foot and shoulder.”

  “What, you’re not donating your jeans, too?”

  “You’re lucky you got the smelly shirt.”

  “Thanks, Andrew,” said Samantha. “You’ll find Helen and the kids, I promise.”

  “Be careful out there,” said Roger. “I’ve heard rumors that there are spiked pits in these woods.”

  I nodded and turned, running in the direction of the store.

  Chapter Eight

  I WATCHED THE GROUND carefully as I ran, which caused me to smack into no fewer than three different branches. Fortunately, though, I didn’t fall into any spiked pits, get caught in any bear traps, get struck by any poisoned darts, or bash into the gates of Hell.

  Finally, the woods thinned and I emerged next to the store. There were still no cars in the parking lot.

  I cracked my knuckles nervously. Hopefully Helen and the kids were inside. And hopefully the old guy in there wasn’t involved with this whole mess. I had several dozen other “hopefully”s I could think of, including one about machine guns and expensive armor dropping from the sky, but I decided to stick with the first two for right now.

  I considered going around back to find a way to sneak in, but I’d already wasted too much time at the pit-o-spikes. I’d just have to be really, really careful.

  I walked to the front door, took a deep breath, then opened it and stepped inside.

  No hailstorm of bullets ripped my chest apart, which was a promising beginning. The old man still sat behind the counter, reading his magazine. He looked startled to see me.

  “Forget something?” he asked. “Like maybe your shirt?”

  “Do you have a phone?”

  He shook his head. “No need for one.”

  “No need for one? How can you run a place of business without a phone?”

  “Got a wireless modem on my PC in the back room. I can use the Internet to place all of my orders quickly and efficiently.”

  “Ah. Has anybody else been here since me?”

  “Since now or since the first time you were here?”

  “The first time.”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I borrow your computer for a minute? It’s an emergency.”

  “Nope. It’s a fancy piece of equipment and it’s not for customer use. You’ll be downloading that damn pornography and getting my machine all filled with viruses and I’m not gonna let it happen.”

  “No, I just need to contact the police.”

  The old man chuckled. “You went to Wreitzer Park anyway, didn’t you? I told you-”

  “No, we were taking your advice but we got ambushed. These people in trucks blocked our way and the camper tipped over and I got separated from my wife and kids and I desperately need to use your computer.”

  The old man stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You sure are anxious to look at pornography.”

  “I’m not interested in pornography! My family is in danger!”

 
“Now, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy a good nudie magazine every now and then, if the breasts are natural,” the old man informed me. “I just don’t want any of that stuff on my computer.”

  I gaped at him. He was definitely part of this whole mess. That was their modus operandi, to be as annoying as humanly possible.

  I wasn’t in the habit of beating information out of old men (I usually just tied them up and threatened them with broken plates), but perhaps I could give it a shot just this once.

  A vehicle pulled up outside.

  The old man looked me in the eye. “I’m not the kind of fellow to tell somebody their business, but you may want to hide.”

  I moved away from the counter and ducked into the aisle at the far end of the store. I pushed a box of cereal out of the way, allowing me to peek through the shelf and watch the front counter.

  Now I was confused. So, was the old man aware of what was going on, but he was actually a good guy? Or maybe he genuinely was concerned I might use his computer to access pornographic images or videos.

  I looked around for something to use as a weapon. As in the camper, my options were limited, although the cat food, hurled in sufficient quantities, looked like it could do some damage.

  The door opened.

  “Hey, Charlie, how’s it going?” asked a voice I was pretty sure belonged to Troll. As he walked to the front counter I saw it was indeed Troll, he of the scarred legs.

  “It’s going fine. How’ve you been?” asked the old man. “I haven’t seen you around here since you shoplifted this morning.”

  Troll sighed. “It’s going like complete shit, Charlie. We lost Ghoul.”

  “Better get out there and find him.”

  “We didn’t lose him lose him, dumb-ass. He’s dead.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  I considered moving down to the other end of the aisle so I could make a break for it, but if I was lucky, Troll and Charlie wouldn’t waste too much time talking and I’d get my chance to contact the police.

  Troll shook his head. “Completely serious. He could be a pain sometimes, but I really liked that kid, and it’s never good to lose a member of your team, y’know?”

  “It certainly isn’t.”

  Troll withdrew his hunting knife from its leather sheath. “And to top it all off, every one of ‘em got away. I mean, even the frickin’ dog. I’ll tell you something, Charlie, I think this team is falling apart.”

  Troll scraped the knife against his leg. It appeared to be an absent-minded action, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Well, you’ll get them,” said Charlie. “You always do. That’s what the traps are for, right?”

  “No, the traps are to give me something fun to do in between hunting sessions so I don’t get bored out of my mind sitting around this dump. The specimens aren’t even supposed to make it out of the car until we’re ready. But yeah, they’re probably dead. Hopefully chopped in half. I think maybe we need new management, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yep, I know what you mean.”

  “Have you seen anybody in here since you reported the family?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “If you do, let us know ASAP.”

  “Will do.”

  Troll slid the blade of the knife against the back of his leg. The cut wasn’t deep, but a trickle of blood ran down his skin. He let out a soft moan of pleasure.

  “What was that for?” asked Charlie.

  “What?”

  “That sound you made.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Aw, jeez, Troll, are you cutting yourself again? Don’t do that in my place. I’m not saying this is a respectable establishment, but I don’t want that masochistic crap going on here. Cut yourself someplace else.”

  “Lighten up. I’m not gonna get any blood on your precious floor.”

  “I can mop the floor. I just don’t want your nasty self-mutilation bullshit happening in my place of business. Knock it off.”

  Troll defiantly held up his left arm and slowly slid the blade across it. He chuckled as Charlie grimaced.

  “Get the hell out of my store,” Charlie said, waving him away. “Come back when you learn to stop acting like a messed-up freak of nature.”

  “Got a Band-Aid?”

  “Go on, get out of here, you whack-job. Go mourn your buddy.”

  I pulled back quickly as Troll looked over his shoulder in my direction. “Can I kill your guest first?”

  “Aw, no, no, no!” Charlie protested. “Don’t mess up my place!”

  I stood up. My instinct was to run, but I’d be much better off if I stood and fought this particular whack-job, especially since Helen and the kids were probably headed this way. If I could get rid of Troll now, we’d be much more likely to ride off into the sunset for our happy ending.

  I walked backwards as Troll joined me in the narrow aisle, grinning and holding the knife out in front of him. “Hey there. How’ve you been?”

  “No, Troll, no! I mean it!” Charlie shouted. “No splatter on the merchandise! No splatter on the merchandise! That’s the deal!”

  “You really should adhere to your agreement,” I suggested. “Getting banned from a store like this is a blot on your permanent record that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  “Oooooh, funny guy,” said Troll.

  “Really? I thought that joke was kind of lame. You must be easily amused.”

  “Oooooh, funny dead guy.” Troll switched the knife from his right hand to his left. “Want me to carve some smiley faces on your chest?”

  “No, but speaking of carving, what’s the deal with cutting yourself? I mean, did you, I dunno, have a sexy French maid who cut you as punishment when you were a kid and it became some kind of fetish?”

  Troll shrugged. “It’s just my thing.”

  “It’s a dumb thing. Really, it is. You look stupid when you’re doing it. Chicks love scars, but not when they’re self-imposed. I mean, I’m all for freedom of expression and all that, but what you’re doing just isn’t cool.”

  “Are you finished trying to distract me?”

  “Almost.”

  Troll flicked the tip of his knife against his chin, drawing blood. “Maybe you should give this a try. You might like it.”

  “Nah. I’ve always been a bludgeoning man, myself. So, do you use antiseptic in bulk, or is infection part of the whole allure?”

  “Do you ever stop talking?”

  “Not generally, no. How about this? You look like a pretty tough guy. Why not put down the knife and make this into a fair fight?”

  “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

  “To be honest, I have no idea. I’m just reaching at this point.”

  He rushed at me. I instinctively grabbed for the closest object available, a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, and used it to deflect his knife. The blade tore through the bag, releasing a shower of chips.

  I punched him in the face as hard as I could. Troll flew back against the shelf, knocking several canned goods to the floor. He put a hand to his face where I’d punched him, smiled, and breathed heavily, almost panting.

  Panting in a sexual way.

  I truly hoped he didn’t enjoy the punch.

  He lunged at me with the knife again, and I stepped out of the way, crunching some chips underneath my foot. I punched him again, slamming my fist into his shoulder, and he let out a groan of pleasure.

  “Not in here!” Charlie shouted, stepping into the aisle. “Some of us have to make a living!”

  Troll rubbed his shoulder, pursed his lips, and said (and I quote): “Ooooooooh.”

  I lowered my fists. “Okay, no offense, but this is seriously messed up.”

  Troll grinned. “C’mon, give it to me again, big boy.”

  I grabbed a large can of tomato soup from the shelf and swung it at him just as he swung his knife at me. Tin can met stainless steel blade, and both lost. The can fell out of my hand and the knife
fell out of his.

  I punched him in the face with my other hand, knocking him back a step. He didn’t throw back his head and scream “Yes! Oh, yes!” but his expression implied he was thinking it.

  “You’re paying for the damage, Troll! I’m gonna take inventory of every cent!”

  “Shut up!” Troll shouted at him. “You’re ruining this!”

  This was so very wrong. How could I be expected to fight under these conditions?

  Troll threw a punch of his own. It hit me in the chest, a glancing blow that was not even remotely pleasurable. Instead of punching back, I slammed my hands into his shoulders and gave him a hard push, shoving him to the floor. He landed on cans and potato chips, and this time his reaction was more of pain than pleasure, which was a relief.

  I snatched up the knife.

  Troll sat up and used the tip of his tongue to lick some of the blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

  I held up the knife in what I hoped was a terribly intimidating way. “If you want to live, contact your buddies and tell them to call off the hunt.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because I just told you to. I don’t think having this knife go through your eyeball will quite give you that happy-happy feeling.”

  “Couldn’t tell you. I’ve never tried it.” Troll got up, brushing potato chip fragments off his pants. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you put that knife down so we can have a fair fight?”

  “Okay,” I said, flinging it at him.

  I’ve never had much knife-throwing practice, but I hoped the blade would strike his throat, heart, or eyeball. It didn’t. It struck his upper arm. He stared at the blade as it jutted out of his flesh, buried an inch deep.

  He gasped.

  Then gasped again.

  Then let out a high pitched squeal of delight that was the single most disturbing noise I have ever heard in my entire life, and in the past couple of years of my life I’ve heard some really disturbing noises.

  I rushed at him and punched at the knife, bashing it with my fist and jamming it even further into Troll’s arm. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. A horrified glance downward revealed a bulge in his pants that was even more disturbing than the squeal.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” I demanded. “You’re… you’re… you’re… you’re wrong! You’re just wrong!”