by Robert Brown
“And they never came back?”
“Nope.”
“That’s strange because they went to the ruins near Republic at least two days in a row. Maybe they were here earlier?”
“I would have heard them if they passed by at night. Gets pretty quiet at night around here.”
“But you must go out sometimes.”
“Yeah, sometimes. They could have slipped by. But we didn’t go out the night before they showed up. If they had come, we would have known.”
They had started walking back to the road.
“You said you got pictures?” Clayton asked.
“Yeah, I’ll show them to you.”
“Give me a lift back. We’ll crack a couple.”
Nick wasn’t sure what he meant. He didn’t really want someone like Clayton in his car, but he didn’t have the guts to say no.
They got to the car and Clayton gave him directions. They went to the intersection with the county road and Clayton pointed at a narrow track that Nick hadn’t noticed before. He pulled into it and just ten yards beyond, at the edge of a field, stood a beat-up old trailer. A thick screen of trees and bushes hid it from both roads. Nick wondered why Clayton was living all the way out there. It seemed more like hiding.
Nick parked next to an old pickup truck with a bumper sticker that said “Don’t like my driving? Call 1 800 EAT SHIT” and cut the engine. Just as he did, a curtain twitched. Clayton got out and waved.
The door opened and a thin, big-breasted girl who couldn’t have been over eighteen came out, her blonde hair bouncing on bare shoulders. She wore a halter top and cutoff jeans, both so tight Nick could see every curve and line of her body.
“Oh, honey, you scared the shit out of me!” she said. She ran down the three steps from the front door and flew into Clayton’s arms.
“Don’t worry, baby, it wasn’t them.”
She turned to look at Nick with a child’s open curiosity.
“Who’s this?”
“I’m Nick Upton. Pleased to meet you.”
“A brainiac from the university,” Clayton said. “Nick, meet Trisha.” Clayton turned toward the girl. “He saw some of them stick figures and dead animals in another old town and came to find some more.”
Trisha got a guarded look on her face. Nick hurried to reassure her.
“I want to stop whoever is doing this. They killed a cat near where I live. I don’t want them to move on to killing people.”
Nick wasn’t sure they would, but he felt he had to explain his curiosity somehow.
“Get us a couple, would you?” Clayton asked, moving for the door. Trisha hurried ahead of them.
They entered the trailer. It had a small living room, most of which was taken up by an old easy chair and a lumpy sofa facing a large flat-screen TV. A tiny kitchen stood to one side. Open doors on the other side led to a small bedroom and bathroom. A double bed took up almost the entire bedroom, the thin strip of floor around it covered with rumpled clothes and stuffed animals. The bathroom gave off a septic funk.
“Take a seat,” Clayton said.
Nick picked the sofa because it looked slightly less dirty than the easy chair. He sank into it, his knees jutting up.
“You got utilities out here?” Nick asked.
“Water is from a well. We’re at the end of the line for electricity. Crap reception on the TV.”
“It’s as boring as fuck,” Trisha said, opening the fridge and pulling out two cans of Budweiser. Nick tried to keep a poker face. He had always hated lagers, especially cheap, mass-produced ones.
Trisha handed a can to each man, then got another for herself. Clayton took a swig of the beer.
“Check this out,” he said, and reached behind the sofa. He pulled out a stick sculpture. It was one of the human figures.
“That’s just like the ones I saw,” Nick said.
“Put it away. It gives me the creeps,” Trisha said, hugging herself.
“It’s pretty freaky all right,” Clayton agreed.
“It’s Devil stuff. We shouldn’t have it in the house.”
“Aw, it ain’t gonna hurt us. It’s just some sticks tied together.” Clayton turned to Nick. “Trisha was raised Evangelical. Her family and I don’t exactly see eye to eye about her shacking up with me.”
Nick didn’t know what to say to that, so he took a sip of his drink. He wondered if Trisha was of legal age. He didn’t even know what the age of consent was in this state. Probably low. Lower if it was your cousin.
“You said you got some pictures?” Clayton asked.
“Yes. Let me show you,” Nick replied, glad to have an excuse to put down the cheap beer.
He switched on the camera and turned the screen so Clayton could see. Trisha turned her back and walked into the bedroom.
“Whoa!” Clayton said as Nick scrolled through the pictures. “Yeah, these are the same guys, all right. Trisha, come see this.”
“No! We shouldn’t be messing with that stuff.”
“Aw, crap. Poor cat.”
“They killed a kitty?” Trisha moaned from the bedroom.
“‘Fraid they did, baby. The same way they killed that dog.” Clayton looked at Nick. “We gotta stop these sick motherfuckers.”
“I already talked with the sheriff, but he was more interested in busting meth labs.”
Clayton shook his head. “Typical. The cops do something only after the crime’s already happened. They’re like garbage men with guns. Just there to clean up the mess.”
Nick’s brow furrowed. “I’m concerned that these people have been doing this for a while now. If we’ve both seen them, who knows how many other places they’ve done this. It’s strange, though. They always seem to do it in old ruins. That’s how I found this place. And they never do it too far from civilization. This county has plenty of isolated fields and thick woods. They could easily avoid detection if they wanted to.”
“You mean they want to get caught?”
“Not necessarily. I think they want to be seen.”
“Why?”
Nick shrugged.
Clayton snickered. “Come on, you’re the professor. Ain’t you supposed to know everything?”
“I never studied dog mutilation in graduate school.”
“Can you two please stop?” Trisha called from the bedroom.
Clayton ignored her. “Skipped that class, huh? Wanted to get some of that pretty university pussy.”
Nick grinned. “It was fun while it lasted. Now I’m married. As for your question, if I had to make a guess, I would say that being witnessed was an integral part of the ritual. In many cultures, magical rituals happen in front of the gathered village. They’re given more power that way, and act as lessons or warnings to the community. I’ve studied magical rituals in Peru, Brazil, and various parts of the United States. Most rituals had audiences.”
Clayton cocked his head. “Yeah, that makes sense, I guess. Tell you what. I’ve talked to some of the other boys down at the feed mill. You know, there’s old ruins and graveyards all over this county, and some of the boys live pretty close to them. I told them to keep their eyes open. Give me your number and I’ll call you if I hear anything. You do the same.”
“Um, sure.”
They traded phone numbers. Nick didn’t really want to give this white trash his number but what was going on in the woods intrigued him, especially now that he had learned it was a group of people. That moved it from being the actions of some solitary unhinged individual to the belief system of a group, maybe even a subculture.
In the estimation of cultural anthropology, it had just become worthy of study.
They chatted for a while longer. Once Nick managed to finish his beer, he excused himself, saying he had to get back home. The stink of the bathroom and the alluring sight of Trisha sprawled out on the bed, obviously waiting for Clayton to join her, made him uncomfortable. That and the fact that he had nothing in common with these people.
�
��Sure you don’t want another beer?” Clayton asked.
“No, I better be going.”
“Don’t go poking around the woods no more,” Trisha called from the bedroom. “You’re liable to get hurt.”
Clayton winked at Nick, then called into the bedroom. “Oh, there’ll be some poking going on, baby, just as soon as the professor leaves. But don’t worry none. I won’t hurt you.”
Nick smiled. “That’s my cue to leave.”
Clayton waved as he closed the door. “Adios, amigo, as the wetbacks say.”
Nick got in his car, turned on the engine, and let out a sigh of relief.
“Yeee-haw!” he said to himself as he got onto the county road. “I hope I didn’t get bedbugs from that couch. Ah well, it’s over. It’s not like his inbred friends are going to spot the cultists. That’s the last I’ll ever hear from him.”
Three days later, he did.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The call came at eleven at night, just as Cheryl was going to bed. Elaine was already asleep. Nick sat alone on the sofa, reading a book about modern cults.
“Hey brainiac, it’s Clayton. You up for some night hunting?”
Nick leaped to his feet.
“Where?”
“Interstate, Exit 27. Cut right on the access road and you’ll see a country store. My friend lives in a trailer behind it. There’s an old road that heads off the access road into the woods, where one of them abandoned towns is. He saw that red Lexus and a gray four-door Nissan head down it.”
“When?” Nick was pulling on his shoes.
“Five minutes ago. If we hustle, we’ll get ‘em. I’m just getting in the truck. Poor Trisha had a shit fit or I’d be on the interstate by now.”
“I’m coming.”
“Bring your gun,” Clayton said.
He hung up. Cheryl appeared at the top of the stairs.
“What’s going on?”
“A friend. He’s having car trouble way out on the interstate. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Oh. All right,” she said, turning away. “Be quiet coming in. I have an early day tomorrow.”
Nick felt a pang of guilt for lying to her, but he knew that if he told Cheryl the truth, she would throw a “shit fit” just like Trisha had. It would be a far more mature and logical shit fit but that was the danger. He didn’t want to be delayed by having to spend time justifying his actions.
He couldn’t even justify them to himself. He only knew that he was more excited than he had been in far too long.
He thought about that fact as he hopped into the car and headed for the interstate. He used to be an adventurer, what he liked to call a “low-level adrenaline junky.” While some people got off on bungee jumping or taking ecstasy at raves, Nick liked the slower-release thrill of hanging out in remote villages in the Amazon rainforest or learning Voudon rituals from fifth-generation practitioners in the Louisiana bayou. He loved getting out of his comfort zone. He loved discovering the unknown. At least he used to. Now he felt uncomfortable sitting in a trailer with a friendly member of the working class. What had happened to him?
Career worries. Middle age. Parenting. All the usual stuff. He had let himself slip, just like all those regular people to whom he had always thought himself a bit superior. How banal.
Nick sped down the highway in the fast lane until he found the exit. He felt a prickle of anticipation as he turned onto the access road and saw a low wooden building a little ahead of him. No lights were on, but he recognized Clayton’s pickup parked beside another pickup out front. A large sign, which would have been visible from the highway if lit, read, “Republic Food, Antiques & Book Emporium.”
“I’ll have to teach this bozo about the Oxford comma,” Nick muttered as he switched off his headlights and parked next to Clayton’s pickup. As he got out, Nick saw Clayton open the shop’s front door and gesture for him to come inside.
“Where’s your gun?” Clayton whispered as Nick approached the door.
“I don’t own a gun,” Nick admitted.
Clayton snorted. They both entered the store, which was dimly lit by an emergency exit sign. No other lights shone. At one end ran a counter bearing a coffee machine and a rotisserie for hot dogs. A glass-fronted fridge was stocked with drinks. A couple of aisles contained more items that Nick couldn’t make out in the dark. A second room lay beyond that, but it was swathed in shadow.
Another man appeared out of the shadows. He looked about fifty, tall and hefty with a jowly, rectangular face beneath a grimy John Deere cap. The red light from the emergency exit sign gleamed off a pistol in a belt holster.
“You must be the professor,” said the man in a low voice, giving Nick a firm handshake. “I’m Matt Guthrie.”
“Pleased to meet you. Why are we whispering? Are they close?”
Clayton and Matt chuckled.
“Not sure why we’re whispering, actually,” Matt said in a normal tone. “They’re a good half mile down the road.”
“Guess we’re just getting caught up in the excitement,” Clayton said and laughed.
“So, what’s the plan?” Nick asked.
“They went down an old dirt road that passes right beside the shop and ends half a mile into the woods,” said Matt. “Now that you’re here, we’re going to block off that road where it enters the trees. It’s pretty narrow. I don’t have anything too heavy, but this folding table should slow them down enough for us to catch them if they make a run for it.” He indicated a long table stacked with t-shirts. “Once we got that in place, we’ll sneak up on them and try to get the drop on them.”
“Let’s get a move on,” Clayton said. “I don’t want to give them time to cut up another dog or cat. Fucking sickos.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to block the lane with one of our vehicles?” Nick suggested.
Matt shook his head, his eyes shaded under his cap. “Too noisy. Even if we put it in neutral and pushed it, they’d hear it if they’re not too far in the woods.”
“They won’t be,” Nick said. “They always stay close to civilization so their work can be seen. And I want to see it. Let’s sneak up on them. I’m curious to find out what kind of ritual they’re doing.”
“Right. Clayton said you were an expert on the occult.”
Nick decided not to correct them except for saying, “I’m not a pagan or anything like that.”
“I know.” Matt nodded. “More like a witch hunter. That’s what we need.”
A witch hunter? Clayton must have drunk a lot of that Budweiser.
Without another word, Matt opened the door. Clayton picked up his shotgun from where it had been leaning against a wall and slung it on his back. The three of them removed all the t-shirts from the table, folded the table’s legs, and carried it out to the parking lot. Matt took the lead, and together they trotted down a dirt road.
The sky had a thin covering of clouds. The moon, which was a little less than half-full, shone a diffuse light across the sky, turning it a pale gray. Nick couldn’t see far. The dirt road was a faint track, the grass and bushes on either side only vague shapes. The forest loomed ahead like a jagged shadow, utterly black.
Suddenly, Nick was struck by how stupid this all was. What was he doing, running around with two hicks looking for a band of Satanists or whatever they were? And they were going to stop them with a table? Get real! Why didn’t they just call the cops?
More importantly, why hadn’t that been his first reaction?
It didn’t take a genius to figure out, Nick thought as he realized that he was grinning. This was the most excitement he’d had in this dull town for longer than he could remember. Sure, it was stupid, but it was an adventure. And if things went well, he’d get an inside view of a contemporary rural religion. It would give him something to talk about at the annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association the next time someone ribbed him for living out in the sticks.
“Let’s try to avoid gunplay,” Nick wh
ispered.
“I ain’t looking to shoot no one but if they come gunning at me, I’ll blow their fucking heads off,” Clayton said.
“The professor is right,” Matt said. “We’ll try to do this nice and peaceful. Less trouble with the law once we capture them.”
Those last words made Nick’s heart shiver. He’d been so caught up in the moment, he hadn’t really thought about the fact that they would have to confront these people. Matt had seen two cars. That could mean two people or eight people. Maybe more. What if they were armed? What if they didn’t surrender at the first sight of Clayton’s shotgun and Matt’s pistol?
For the first time in his life, Nick regretted that he wasn’t a gun owner.
“If we’re outgunned, we shouldn’t try anything,” Nick husked. He was getting out of breath from the exertion. The table had felt light at first but now it felt like a lead weight. Its edge cut into his fingers.
They came to where the dirt road entered the woods. The lane was barely wide enough for a car to pass. Matt led them to a spot where a boulder stood on one side of the lane and a large tree on the other. Nick thought he could see the reflection of moonlight on a windshield a little farther on. Distant voices floated through the darkness to them.
They set up the table, Nick wincing as the legs clicked into place, each one sounding horribly loud in the night. Clayton picked up a couple of large stones lying by the side of the road and gently set them on top of the table, managing to not make much noise. Nick helped him load on a few more.
Once they were done, they paused. The voices continued as before. It didn’t sound as though anyone had heard them. Matt drew his pistol and motioned for them to follow. Clayton, gripping his shotgun, gave Nick a friendly punch on the shoulder and they moved forward.
While they tried to make as little noise as possible, Nick agonized over every scrape of a boot on dirt, every clatter of a pebble underfoot. While the rational part of his mind reassured him that these sounds were barely audible, his muscles tensed and sweat trickled down his forehead.