by Robert Brown
Everyone shook their heads.
“It’s a horror film from 1999, about some students going into the woods to make a documentary about a witch legend. The witch turns out to be real and leaves stick figures of men exactly like the ones we found.”
“The Devil has a lot of influence in Hollywood,” Tobiah said, nodding.
Nick ignored that and went on. “Now, Clayton was suggesting that these were students. From what little we saw of them, they did look young. At first, I dismissed that. The cult has more of a local flavor—”
“What do you mean by that?” Clayton asked.
I mean they’re acting like a bunch of crazy hicks, Nick thought. Out loud he said, “Oh, the local Native American signs, and going to the old ruins, and calling out to the land. But The Blair Witch Project was shown at the university movie theater last semester. I’ve never seen any locals go to that theater.”
“We ain’t welcome,” Matt said.
“Everyone’s welcome on campus,” Nick objected, immediately realizing he had just launched an argument.
“Oh yeah?” Carl said. “I go there sometimes to use the library and every single time I do, campus security follows me. Every single time. And that movie theater you mentioned? It never sends its listings to the Republic Gazette. Oh, and you ever wonder why a university theater has a student and faculty discount? That’s a nice way of saying that locals pay more.”
Nick bit his lip.
“Well, I suppose the university could be more welcoming. But its focus is on the students. After all, they’re the ones paying to use the facilities.”
“More like their parents pay,” Trisha said. “Spoiled brats. My folks would never pay for college, even if they could afford it.”
“And we do pay,” Carl said. “I gotta pay fifty bucks a year for my library card. The community library card is free.”
“Well, that’s because you already pay for it with your taxes,” Nick said.
“We pay for Republic University with our taxes too,” Wayne said, spitting more tobacco juice into his empty beer can. “State taxes go to support it, and local money goes toward the public sidewalks and roads that pass through it. We pay for a part of town where we ain’t welcome.”
“Taxation without representation,” Carl said with a nod. “That’s what our forefathers fought against in the American Revolution.”
Nick raised his hands. “Look, we’re not going to solve town-and-gown troubles tonight. I doubt anyone could ever solve them. Let’s focus on the bloodthirsty arsonist cult, shall we?”
“The bloodthirsty arsonist cult of students?” Brandon asked.
“Maybe students,” Nick said.
“So, why do you think they’re students, besides them imitating a movie that played on campus?” the taxi driver asked.
“I suppose locals could have imitated the movie. It was a big hit and anyone can rent or download it. But I’m thinking now that it might be students. They were young, as we saw, and they tracked my office down pretty quickly. I teach Anthropology 101, an introductory course that a lot of freshmen take as part of their social sciences requirement. I also teach a mythology class that’s very popular. Lots of students know me. Right now, literally hundreds of students at Republic University have been in one of my classes. I was spotted at the site at the end of the jogging trail, and then at the gunfight just down the road here. They even filmed me that time. And with there being eight of them, chances are one would have recognized me.”
Nick had been thinking things through as he talked, and his own words filled him with terror. Clayton put those fears into words.
“Well shit, bud. Looks like you’re in more danger than all of us put together.”
Nick nodded. “That stick figure outside my window was a warning. They don’t want to make an attack in town, like I said. But if I keep going after them, they’ll hit back at me out of a sense of self-preservation.”
“Then pull out,” Clayton said. “You’ve done plenty. This ain’t your fight.”
Nick looked at him sharply. “How isn’t this my fight? They shot at me. They threatened me. I may work on campus, but I live in this community. My family won’t be safe until these people are stopped.”
Clayton smiled. “Well, ain’t that fine? Someone from the university finally gives a shit about Republic. Don’t worry, bud, we’ll do everything we can to keep your family safe.”
“Give us your address,” Brandon said. “Any time we’re in that part of town, we’ll pass by your house and check on it.”
Nick thanked him and gave everyone his address.
“I live just past that neighborhood,” Tobiah said. “I can pass through to and from work. That’s two patrols a day right there.”
“I go through that neighborhood a lot too,” Brandon said. “I get a lot of rides from there.”
“We’ll all make sure we go through,” Wayne said. “Don’t worry, Nick. We’ll keep a good eye on your family.”
Trisha pressed her leg more against his. Nick supposed that was supposed to be reassuring. Instead, he found it distracting.
“Thanks, guys,” Nick said. “Now let’s figure out what we’re doing tonight.”
“Check on a couple of those ritual sites,” Matt said. “I say we split into two groups like we did last time. One will go to Clayton’s place. See if those sickos have returned to the scene of the crime. The other can go …” Matt looked at Nick.
Nick pulled out the copy of the 1908 map he’d gotten from the historical society. He pointed to a spot of open countryside with scattered farms and a small concentration at the intersection of two thin lines that indicated dirt roads.
“We still need to check out this place. If they want to make a pentagram around Republic, like I said, that would be a good spot.”
Brandon leaned forward. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you before, but I wrote down that spot when you showed it to us last time. I got a chance to go out there this morning. Those dirt roads are now county roads. I saw some thickets that might hide old houses, and only one lonely old farm right at the intersection. I stopped to ask the owner if he had seen anything suspicious but didn’t get the chance.”
“Why not?” Nick asked.
Brandon grimaced. “Because he thought I was the one being suspicious.”
“He get all Ku Klux on you?” Carl asked.
“You might say that, yes. I felt like getting all Black Panther on his cracker ass.”
Everyone chuckled except Nick, who felt uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry that happened, Brandon,” he said.
The taxi driver looked at him curiously. “You’re not the one who needs to apologize.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you’re going to get an apology from him.”
“That doesn’t put it on you,” Brandon replied. “I say we go back there tonight. I’ll go in that patrol to show y’all where it is. Professor, you come too since you haven’t seen that spot before. And for the other two, how about Carl and Tobiah?”
“Right,” Matt said. “Me, Wayne, Clayton, and Trisha will go check out their place. Maybe they did a ritual after the firefighters left, or maybe they’re planning to do one tonight.”
“We have to do these patrols every night,” Wayne said. “I’m going to have to change the work schedule at the feed mill. Guys, let’s figure out how to make the most of our time.”
While the feed mill workers hashed out their schedules, Nick stepped away from the table, relieved to get away from Trisha’s tempting warmth. What was that girl thinking, anyway? Her boyfriend was right there!
The drama these people create for themselves, Nick thought.
Nick rummaged through the used books Matt was selling. Even in a situation like this, he couldn’t resist a bookshop. A lot of it was junk, old romance novels and Westerns, but he did find a volume on the local Native Americans.
He turned and held it up. “Looks like you made a sale, Matt.”
�
��Put that on my tab, Matt,” Clayton said. “A present for the professor for helping me out.”
Nick almost tried to argue with him but realized it would hurt his feelings. Clayton, like all the others, had a strong sense of pride, as well as something akin to honor. Nick hadn’t expected to find that among the locals.
That honor included a code that neighbor should help neighbor. Now Nick was part of that.
That also included hunting down a dangerous religion at night in the middle of nowhere. Nick checked and rechecked his pistol as Brandon drove them to the old crossroads. Carl and Tobiah sat in the back seat, checking their own guns.
Sitting among these quietly confident and efficient men gave Nick an odd sense of pride. They were uneducated and unrefined, but he’d rely on any one of these near-strangers before he relied on any of his colleagues in the anthropology department.
And he had the dark feeling he’d need to rely on these guys all too soon.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The crossroads were well out of town. No lights were nearby. For Nick, who had always left town via the highway, it was a shock to see how quickly civilization ended and the countryside began. Passing through a neighborhood of Republic that Nick had never visited, Brandon drove them in his taxi onto a county road and past a few lonely farmhouses.
Soon those were gone, and they drove for some time without seeing anything.
“Are we there yet?” Nick asked.
“Oh, now, don’t start talking like my kids,” Brandon said. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Tell us if you need to get out and take a wee-wee,” Carl joked from the back seat.
“Wiseass.” Nick chuckled.
Everyone else laughed too, including Tobiah, who rarely cracked a smile. The laughter sounded forced, though, and Nick knew they were all masking the fear he himself felt.
The drive continued for some time, the world narrowed down to the space delineated by Brandon’s headlights. They saw nothing but the cracked asphalt ahead and the bushes and trees crowding in from either side. Occasionally, they opened into what Nick assumed were fields. After a while, Brandon switched off his headlights, slowed down, and leaned forward, his nose almost touching the windshield.
“No point announcing our presence,” he explained.
After another couple of minutes, he pulled off on a grassy area to the side of the road.
“We’ll walk the rest of the way. It’s not far.”
They got out and made a final weapons check. Nick kept his safety on, not trusting himself. The last thing he needed to do was make a panicked shot in the dark and add to the statistics of accidental firearms deaths.
The others weren’t so hesitant. Carl had brought along his rifle. Tobiah had strapped a handgun to his belt, while Brandon opened his jean jacket to reveal a shoulder holster.
“Isn’t concealed carry illegal in this state?” Nick asked. His manual on gun ownership had mentioned that.
“So is robbing cab drivers,” Brandon said.
Carl chuckled. “You ever see that old movie Shaft? Brandon’s just like him, one bad motherfucker.”
“Watch your mouth,” Tobiah grumbled.
“He’s only talking about Shaft,” Brandon said. He and Carl laughed.
“Be quiet and quit fooling around, or do you want to be cracking jokes in Hades?” Tobiah asked.
With a final grin, Brandon led them down the road. The night was quiet but for the soft whir of cicadas. For once it was clear, and the stars and the thin sliver of the crescent moon gave them a little light. Republic was a distant glow on the horizon behind them.
Brandon walked a little ahead, with the other three spread out across the road behind him. The taxi driver slowed to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” Tobiah whispered.
“We’re almost there, but I don’t see that cracker’s house lights,” Brandon whispered back.
Peering through the near darkness, Nick could just make out the intersection of the two narrow roads about fifty yards ahead. A few trees and bushes obscured the view, but he thought he saw the dark, rectangular shape of a house just to the left of the intersection. Nick approached Brandon and pointed.
“Is that it?” he whispered.
Brandon nodded.
Nick licked his lips. Anyone living out here would leave a light burning outside their home. All the farms they had passed on their nighttime patrols had done so.
Something was wrong.
Everyone stood still for a moment, listening. They heard nothing but the cicadas and the slight breeze rustling the grass and bushes. Nick noticed a plane flying high overhead—some jet flying from city to city, full of contently bored passengers locked in a brightly lit cocoon where all was mundane and normal and safe.
The four men began to advance. Nick found that he had drawn his pistol and flicked off the safety. The others had their guns at the ready, too. Brandon angled to the left, passing in front of Nick, and for a terrifying moment Nick realized he had his finger on the trigger and the gun pointed right at the taxi driver’s back. Heart beating wildly, Nick eased his finger off the trigger and placed it on the trigger guard.
As they approached the intersection, Brandon crouched behind some bushes lining the road between them and the house. The others followed suit.
They waited a long moment. Nick could see the house more clearly now, a low prefab structure by the county road. The land was open around and behind it except for a larger black shape behind and to the left of the house—no doubt the farmer’s field and barn.
“Something’s definitely wrong,” Brandon whispered.
“What do we do?” Carl asked.
“Face the music,” Tobiah said. “We ain’t going to stop these demons hiding here.”
Carl got behind a larger bush and stood, aiming his rifle at the house.
“You men go ahead. I’ll cover you.”
They angled across the intersection, the moonlight silhouetting them against the pavement. Nick felt terribly exposed until they got to the meager shelter of the opposite side of the road. A few strands of barbed wire blocked them from going far beyond the roadside, but at least they could walk along a narrow strip of grass. The soft earth muffled their footsteps and their figures were less exposed against the darker soil and grass.
The walked in single file. To his horror, Nick found himself in front.
The soft creak of an opening door made them freeze.
Nick peered at the front porch—a mass of thick shadows that revealed nothing. He couldn’t even see the door clearly. He heard no footsteps. Perhaps the occupant had opened the door a little to fire out at them?
Tobiah’s shouted words sounded like an explosion ripping through the still night.
“You in there! We’re friends. Good Christian men. Are you in trouble? Do you need any help?”
Nick gritted his teeth. Tobiah had just given away their position. The farmer could blow them away.
Or maybe the Bible thumper was being smart and avoiding friendly fire.
Either way, they got no response.
“Now what?” Nick whispered.
The door creaked again.
“Are you all right in there?” Tobiah called out again, making Nick wince. “Just tell us you’re all right and we’ll go. We’re not looking for you; we’re looking for some strangers up to no good around here. You seen anybody?”
The breeze picked up a little. The door creaked again, louder and longer this time.
“Wait a minute,” Tobiah said, moving past Brandon and Nick.
“Careful,” Brandon whispered.
Tobiah approached the house, then stopped a few yards from the porch.
“The door is open. It’s swinging in the wind.”
Nick and Brandon followed him and saw that what he said was true.
“This is bad,” Nick said.
They split up, he and Tobiah heading to the right of the door and Brandon heading to the left. They got on the porch
and hugged the wall. Once again, Nick found himself in front. The door creaked open a few inches. Nick caught a whiff of a foul smell, like a dirty public restroom mingled with something else, something undefinable.
Squaring his shoulders, Nick flicked on the flashlight and the laser sight mounted on his Glock. He shone them through the half-open door.
What he saw made him freeze.
It was the farmer’s living room. All the furniture had been pushed to one side. Nailed to the back wall was an older man. His body was spread-eagled, his stomach cut open, his hands and feet gone. The carpet beneath him was soaked with blood and heaped with intestines. Drawn in blood on the back wall were depictions of the stick figures they had so often found—the man and the wolf, the Devil’s head and pentagram, and above all the Thunderbird, covering the scene with wide-spreading wings.
Nick stumbled back, almost dropping his gun. Somehow, he didn’t lose his dinner.
Brandon wasn’t so lucky. He leaned against the doorframe, puking his guts out.
“Lord have mercy,” Tobiah said, his voice shaky.
Nick shuddered and forced himself to look at the grisly scene once more. He stepped into the room, leading with his gun. Vaguely, he was aware of his two companions following him, Tobiah first, Brandon a little less steadily. Brandon pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and flicked it on.
They passed through the house room by room, looking for the people who had done this, but they came up with nothing.
The little prefab structure didn’t take long to search. Soon they were back in the living room.
The three of them stood in silence.
Tearing his eyes away from the poor man nailed to the wall, Nick looked around the room. A large Confederate flag hung on one wall above the sofa. A cluster of photos hung on the other wall, showing the man and his wife and their grown children. He wondered where they were. Hopefully away for the evening.
Nick spotted a cluster of shiny objects in front of the body. Trying not to look at the huge pool of blood and offal against the wall, he approached.
Condoms. Seven of them.