Slaughterville

by Rod Glenn

  Han stepped out, ready to give chase, but then he too saw John Bryce and Jimmy Coulson approaching from different directions. That in itself wasn’t a problem. The problem was that Bryce appeared to be armed with a rifle.

  Considering his options, Han decided upon a tactical retreat. He disappeared back inside the Miller’s.

  “Help me! P-please! He’s k-k-killed my w-w-w—” His fumbling mouth failed him completely and he screamed out in frustration.

  Both Bryce and Jimmy started to run towards him. Bryce, armed with the Bassett rifle, immediately cocked it and brought it up across his chest as he crossed the Green to the screaming stranger. Jimmy thrust a hand into his coat pocket as he rushed towards the hysterical stranger, clutching the lock knife concealed within for some measure of comfort.

  “What’s going on? Who the hell are you?” Bryce shouted at him as he approached. “Some murdering bastard has killed my wife and son.”

  “Fuck’s goin’ on?” Jimmy echoed, bewildered and out of breath. He coughed a couple of times and spat into the deep snow before continuing on to join them.

  Shaking, Sam thrust a finger towards the Miller’s. “A b-b-bearded man in th-th-theere; h-he’s just k-k-killed my Natalie.” His stuttering gremlin was taking control, as his voice coach used to tell him.

  Bryce turned and took aim at the open doorway. There was no one to be seen.

  Jimmy glanced nervously from Bryce to the newcomer, gripping the hilt of the knife in his sweaty palm. An itch crawled up his sleeve, but he fought the urge to scratch.

  The breeze had died down to a gentle whisper and only a dusting of tiny flakes continued a leisurely descent. The fine powder coated the three men’s hair and shoulders as they stood clustered together in the deserted street.

  Still aiming down the iron sight at the Miller’s, Bryce demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

  “W-we arrived l-l-late last night. C-c-c-c-” He had to stop to take a deep breath, before continuing. Tears were streaming down his flushed cheeks.

  Bryce and Jimmy exchanged a glance.

  “Caught in the st-st-storm heading to s-s-see my dad in B-b-b-”

  “Blindburn?” Jimmy finished with obvious impatience. Turning to Bryce, he said, “You have any idea what’s goin’ on, like?”

  Keeping the rifle pointing at the pub, Bryce turned to the two men. “You and me got unfinished business, you little prick. While I was out chasing you off me farm, someone broke in and killed Sally and Anthony. Butchered them.” He spat the last two words through clenched teeth.

  Jimmy stepped back from the raw emotion in the big farmer’s tone and features. “I-I didn’t know, man.”

  Turning back to the door, Bryce muttered, “How do we know that the murderer isn’t you, cityboy?”

  Sam gaped at him and raised a fist still clutching the ashtray, shaking with fury. “My WIFE! He slit her throat!” The tears were dripping off his quivering chin.

  Jimmy raised his hands defensively. “Woah, alreet, I think he’s alreet, Bryce.”

  “Well, it ain’t a local killing everyone, as you well know, Jimmy. This is fucking Haydon! Where the fuck is everyone else?”

  Jimmy looked around the deserted street. Suddenly the solitude struck him. Despite the weather, there should have been a few people about, especially with all the shouting. And the kids … they loved the snow. “He cannat have killed everyone … not here … could he?”

  Bryce switched his attention from the sight to stare at Jimmy then, slowly, he glanced around them, his eyes frequently diverting back to the pub. No open doors, no faces at windows. No fresh tracks in the snow – other than theirs – come to think of it. But still … “Impossible.” Looking back to Sam, he snarled, “Who is he?”

  “B-beard, ginger h-h-hair, stocky—”

  “Whitman?” Both Bryce and Jimmy chorused.

  “That cannat be right … not Han.” Bryce dropped the rifle to his side in disgust. “I know he’s not one of us, but still … he’s a fucking writer!”

  “Makes perfect sense to me,” Jimmy said, nodding, scratching his stubble with a grubby, red hand.

  “You shut the fuck up, boy. You’ve been gunnin’ for him since he started seeing Lisa. The bloke’s a friend of mine.”

  Jimmy’s eyes widened and, with force, smacked the side of his own head. “Lisa! Oh, Christ! Was there anyone else in there?”

  Sam nodded, his eyes drawn back to the dark entrance. “A really big old man and a slim, young dark-headed woman.”

  Jimmy grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket. “That’s Lisa! Was she … alreet?”

  Sam backed off from the scruffy young man, shoving his hand away. “Th-th-they were both d-d-d—”

  “No!” Jimmy surged forward again, grasping for the newcomer’s collar. “Divvent say that!”

  “Christ.” Setting his jaw, Bryce growled, “Talking’s over.” With that, he stormed towards the Miller’s, aiming the rifle from the hip.

  Jimmy turned away from Sam. “Bryce! Where the hell you goin’?”

  Bryce continued towards the pub, muttering, “I’m gunna kill the bastard, whoever the hell he is.”

  Jimmy considered Bryce’s words then rushed after him. Shakily, Sam followed. With Bryce leading, the three men marched towards the pub. Bryce kicked the door in and entered, sweeping the rifle left to right. It was empty, apart from the bodies.

  Glaring at the bodies of Big Joe and Lisa, Bryce said, “This bastard is dead.”

  Stepping in behind him, Jimmy’s eyes were immediately drawn to Lisa. Ignoring Bryce’s warning, Jimmy rushed over to her and dropped to his knees beside her body. “Lisa … what’s he done to you?” He hesitantly touched her pallid cheek. The chill to her skin caused him to recoil immediately and his eyes grew watery. Scarcely above a whisper, he uttered, “I’m sorry.”

  Sam hovered in the doorway, unable to take his eyes off Natalie’s body. She lay exactly where he had left her only a short time ago. Undisturbed. Still. It’s no biggie, her voice sighed soothingly to him. The words managed to draw him one step back from hysteria.

  Bryce studied the stranger. He was an outsider, but no murderer. He didn’t look like he could fight his way out of a paper bag, but one more body might help. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “S-Sam.”

  “Well, Sam, I’m John and that’s Jimmy. Now, you stay by the door while we take a look around.” With that, he moved through to the lounge, stepping carefully around Natalie, the barrel of the rifle leading the way.

  “Jimmy,” Bryce hissed firmly as the younger man remained squatting beside his dead former girlfriend. The young man’s face was set into a grimace, but he had managed to choke back the tears before they could break through.

  Reluctantly, Jimmy got to his feet and tore his gaze away from Lisa’s dead, open eyes. Once his eyes were averted, he was able to catch up with Bryce at the threshold to the lounge.

  Sam waited, shivering, both from the cold and a mixture of adrenaline and fear. While he waited, his eyes drifting back to Natalie every so often, the minutes ticked away. After the two locals had disappeared into the lounge, he heard no further noises from within the pub. The breeze tickled the back of his neck and an occasional wispy flake would drift into the open doorway.

  Glancing up to the heavens, he noted that the sky was still filled with a swollen, angry cloud covering, so the respite seemed to be only a temporary one. And, eyes darting up and down the street, still no other soul had appeared to question the antics of the three frantic men. It seemed that they were indeed the only survivors to this madman’s rampage.

  His attention promptly returned to the interior of the pub, and inevitably, to his fallen wife. Her face was pointing away from him, but if it wasn’t for the blood, he would’ve sworn that she was just sleeping. Since awaking not so long ago, everything had happened so fast. His mind was only now starting to catch up. Natalie was dead. Murdered. And his dad … what of his dad?

  A
s he waited, his rattled nerves dissolved still further and, along with it, the last shreds of his patience. What was taking them so long? As he stood, hugging himself against the cold and more, the thought crossed his mind that this killer, Whitman, could have gotten to John and Jimmy too. If he had indeed murdered dozens of people already, what could two more possibly do to stop him? Even if they did have a gun and one was the size of that giant, Andre, from The Princess Bride. Well, slight exaggeration there, but still … And, if that was the case, what would he do then?

  What would he do then? What could he do? He was one man, unarmed and fucking useless. What the hell could he do? He was good with servers, with firewalls and routers; that was what he was good at. You need to configure administration rights on SQL Server 2017? Well, Sam’s the man. But fight a mass murdering psychopath? Forget it. He had never even been in a fight since high school, and only then, just a couple of stupid little punch-ups over his stuttering from one of the resident Neanderthals. He seemed to remember losing those too. Split lip, bruised cheek and sore ribs sprung to mind.

  Maybe he should just run. Take the car and run to Blindburn to alert the police. He could be with his dad too – he needed him more than ever. Yes, that’s what he should do. He had been waiting far too long already. The killer must’ve gotten to them too. They’re dead already and Whitman is on his way here to kill me too. What the hell am I doing still standing here? A fucking lamb to the slaughter! Get in the fucking car RIGHT now!

  As he made the decision to run, footsteps could be heard in the lounge and a shadow danced across the opening. Sam’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. His body tensed in readiness to bolt.

  Bryce appeared in the doorway, gun held loosely in both hands. Shaking his head, he said sullenly, “Not there. We did find Big Joe’s wife, Martha, though. In bed with her throat slit.” Anger rising once more, he added, “Fucking … evil.”

  Appearing behind him, Jimmy added, “Aye, and Whitman’s room empty – no Whitman and none of his shit either, like. I reckon we can safely assume that it’s definitely that bastard behind all this.”

  Walking back across towards Sam, Bryce muttered, “Certainly looks that way.”

  The three men walked out into the street. The air was cold and still as they stood, looking around the seemingly deserted village. A smattering of flakes lazily drifted earthwards. As they walked towards Sam’s half submerged Fiesta, Bryce summed up their situation. “So, phones are out. Both me Landy and pickup had all tyres slashed and so have the other cars I’ve come across since walking into the village.”

  “He’s cutting us off,” Jimmy snorted. “So he can pick us off at leisure.”

  “M-mine looks o-okay, but it’s g-g-going to be tough t-t-trying to get to Blindburn in these c-c—”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy added, “that piece of shit isn’t gunna get far.”

  Sweeping the gathered snow away from the window and door of the driver’s door with the sleeve of his jacket, Sam muttered, “Well, it’s all we’ve g-g-got.”

  As Sam slipped behind the wheel, Bryce, with a reluctant Jimmy, proceeded to dig away the deep snow from the rest of the windows and the tyres. Jimmy’s bare hands quickly numbed and his body shivered uncontrollably. Hugging his hands under his armpits, he stamped his feet in a vain attempt to warm his chilled bones. “Picked the perfect weekend, like.”

  Glancing up from the rear passenger side wheel, Bryce said, “I think that was the idea.” His own bare hands were shaking, so he took a moment to blow hot breath over the icy wet fingers. “Could do with a hand here, Jimmy.” His words were laced with fizzling irritation.

  The engine groaned, but didn’t manage to turn over with the first try. Cursing under his breath, Sam waited a moment then turned the key a second time. This time, almost begrudgingly, it turned over with a splutter and the expulsion of a cloud of dirty smoke from the exhaust.

  “In b-business,” Sam said, leaning out the open door.

  Bryce and Jimmy finished clearing away some more of the snow, before piling into the car. Lifting the passenger seat, Bryce smiled and pointed to the back seat. “Get in.”

  After Jimmy, Bryce jumped in, causing a creaking groan from the suspension. He had to hunch his large frame over to avoid hitting his head off the roof. Cradling the rifle on his lap, he said, “You’re gunna have to take it really slow and keep it in second to give yourself a bit of extra traction.”

  Nodding, Sam put it into gear and slowly applied the accelerator. After a juddering, wheel-spin start, they slowly pulled out of the parking bay into the road. The wheels crunched through the deep fresh snow, unsteadily and frequently losing their grip with a wheel spin that would thrust gouts of mucky snow up past the side windows.

  With the fan on full blast to de-mist the windows, they could barely hear the impact of a bullet striking the bonnet. It was Bryce who noticed the plume of snow thrown up by the impact.

  “Hell was that?” Bryce squinted through the hazy windscreen and instinctively switched off the fan. Instead of waiting for the fan, he quickly started wiping the misted windscreen with his hand.

  “We—” Sam started.

  “Quiet.”

  A second shot struck the bonnet just above the radiator. Without the noise of the fan, the crack of the gunshot was just audible over the idling engine.

  Bryce’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, that son of a bitch.” There was mild amusement in his tone when he added, “He’s shooting at us.”

  “Shit!” Jimmy said, lunging into the slim gap between the two front seats. “Let me out!”

  A third shot struck the front grill, releasing a jet of hissing steam from the radiator.

  “Sit back, you little prick,” Bryce snapped as Jimmy forcibly wedged himself further between the two seats, shoulder and one leg jammed over the top of the hand brake.

  Calmly, Bryce said, “Sam, how about you get us outta here?”

  Sam snapped out of his daze and, on reflex, stepped hard on the accelerator. With better traction on the right tyres, the small car lurched forward and swung around at the same time.

  In rapid succession, two more bullets struck the car, one punching a penny-sized hole in the corner of the windscreen, and the second, striking the driver side door, causing Sam to shrink away.

  Another bullet struck the driver side front tyre, immediately deflating it to the wheel rim.

  “Well, that’s that,” Bryce said. “We’re not going anywhere in this. Try to get us over the other side of the Green so we’ve got a bit of cover.” Winding down the window, he slid the barrel out.

  As Bryce stared down the sight, trying to locate the position of the shooter, Sam, pale and sweating, struggled to turn the car around. On three good tyres, the car spun and swerved, seemingly under someone else’s control.

  As another bullet shattered the side window next to Jimmy, causing an involuntary scream, the car lurched into the wrought iron fence bordering the Green, next to the Haydon Oak. All three men lurched forward in their seats, Jimmy striking his forehead with a glancing blow on the back of Bryce’s seat.

  “Out,” Bryce said as he shoved his door open and crawled free into the thick snow.

  Sam needed no encouragement. He was out and scrambling across towards the Post Office, without bothering to turn the engine off. Jimmy frantically struggled with the release catch on the seat, his shaking hands struggling to cooperate. “Bryce!” he cried in a terrified voice.

  Bryce was up and running when he heard Jimmy’s cry. He spun and lunged back at the car as another shot rang out, punching a hole in a patch of virgin snow a couple of feet away.

  Ignoring the gunshot, Bryce lent inside the car and yanked hard on the headrest. The seat tipped forward with a resounding crack and Jimmy immediately spilled out, landing on his back in the snow.

  “You fucking abortion,” Bryce growled, as he dragged the flailing man by his grubby coat collar with one hand and gripped the rifle in his other.

 
; Another gunshot reverberated in the air. Bryce’s teeth snapped together as he felt it tear a hole in his jeans below the knee, nicking the skin in the process. With Jimmy on his feet – of sorts – they both scurried for cover down Bell Lane, where Sam was already waiting, flat against the wall and breathing heavily.

  “Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry,” Han whispered quietly to himself. “Better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why, Hannibal is coming to town.” He allowed himself a broad smile. With the bulk of the hard work – and madness – behind him, he was actually starting to feel a lot better. Having an extra pawn in the mix was a slight irritation, but he wasn’t a local, so that was something! The most irritating thing was that trying to hit anything over a distance with the Walther was nigh on impossible. He was a little annoyed that he hadn’t considered the need for something more accurate over distances; something like John’s rifle. Maybe he would help himself to that later.

  After checking that the three figures weren’t moving anywhere for the time being, he gently shut the sash window and drew the curtains closed. Turning away from the window, he glanced at the bed where Moe Baxter was laying in eternal slumber with his mouth a gaping, gruesome mess. Blood had soaked into the pillow and sheet in front of his face and had dried to a crusty stain.

  His head lay on one side, with that twisted snarl fixed into his ashen features.

  Han folded his arms, with the pistol still in hand, and with a reasonable attempt at a disappointed tone, said, “Ah, don’t look at me like that, Moe. It’s not my fault; the voices made me do it.” He forced a laugh, but in truth, the longer he stared at Moe the quicker his levity ebbed away.

  He caught his reflection in the dressing table mirror, his white face contorted into a sneer. The vision stayed his laughter, and he turned to stare intently at his features. His face was at once unrecognisable to him, and the shock of this dropped his jaw open.