Monarchs

by Rainey, Stephen

  "Hold it steady!" Jan cried. "Get back over. Get back over!"

  A tree loomed ahead, its low-hanging branches reaching for the windshield like outstretched arms, the spongy loam stubbornly gripping the tires. Then the steering wheel bucked like a stallion, wrenched itself from Courtney's grip, and with a bone-numbing jolt, the Jaguar smashed into the thick tree trunk, airbags exploding around the passenger compartment. Her face pitched into a hot, yielding surface, and everything went black.

  For several seconds she sat dazed, her forehead and cheeks numb from the airbag's impact. A bitter, burnt smell filled her nostrils, and when her vision swam back to normal, she saw through the cracked windshield a thin plume of smoke rising from the crumpled hood. A rapid, metallic ticking sound from the engine wound down to an occasional sharp clank. Then she heard Jan moan.

  After a few seconds, she said, "Oh, God. We've got to get out of here."

  For a few more seconds, Courtney remained blank. She couldn't remember why they had been running — until she heard a door slam somewhere behind the car. Then the searing image of Ben Surber's truck racing toward her head-on flashed before her eyes, and she jerked upright with a gasp of dread as awareness of their peril rushed back to her.

  "Lock your door," Courtney said, checking hers. "Don't let them in."

  "We're trapped," Jan said in a shrill voice. "We can't stay in here."

  A figure materialized at Courtney's window, and she drew back as she saw Ben Surber glaring in at her, a rifle or shotgun tucked under one arm. With one hand, he grasped the door handle and tugged. "Open the door," he growled at her. "Open the door, right now."

  Courtney shook her head. "Get the hell away from here!"

  "I said open this goddamn door."

  Another figure — the man she had seen in the car with Ray — appeared at Jan's window, and he pounded the glass with a fist. "Open up, you."

  "Shit," Jan whispered. "Johnny Spencer. More bad news."

  "We'll bust our way in, if we have to," Ben said in a chillingly calm voice. "You'd better open up. Right now."

  "I said get away from here," Courtney said, trying to keep her own voice calm. "You're in trouble enough as it is."

  Ben then lifted his gun, butt-first, drawing it back as if to smash the window. "You don't open that door, I'm gonna bust right through there. Don't think I won't."

  Panic mounting, Courtney glanced around at the surrounding trees, the empty roadway, the pools of black water just to the right. Another man was approaching from behind the car, the one named George Tillery. Now she recognized him as one of the smart-mouthed men at Tall Ships the other night.

  No hope of escape.

  Courtney brought her hand down on the horn and held it. Its voice cried miserably in the silent afternoon, and she heard herself singing out in crude harmony, "Get the hell away from here!"

  Ben sent her a long look of disgust. Then, dark resolve shadowing his face, his muscles tensed, and he brought the butt of his rifle down on the window. The sound of the blow nearly deafened her, and the glass cracked but did not break. He drew back again, and this time, the rifle butt came hurtling through, spraying Courtney with jewel-like fragments. She ducked, screaming, but retained enough presence of mind to reach for the hand that came scrabbling in and jam it down into the sharp wreckage of the window.

  Ben bellowed but did not retreat. Instead, he thrust the rifle stock through the window and smashed it into her shoulder, forcing her back and keeping her from grasping his arm as he reached for the door lock. Crying out in pain, she tried to bat at the encroaching hand but landed only a couple of glancing blows. She watched in horror as he unlocked the door, tugged it open, and leaned down to give her a look of cold triumph. Then he reached in, deftly unbuckled her seatbelt, and dragged her out of her seat with one quick, powerful tug. She landed in soft, dank earth, only to find herself being hauled to her feet by George Tillery. He clutched the back of her neck and her right bicep in taut iron claws, forcing her to watch as Johnny Spencer tore open the passenger door and extracted Jan, screaming and flailing, with barely an effort.

  Ben glanced at Tillery and then pointed to Courtney. "That one in Ray's car. The other one in my truck. Let's get 'em moving."

  Tillery shoved her forward, throwing her off-balance, but his grip on her neck held her upright. She moved forward mechanically, her voice frozen by terror, her heart pounding so fiercely it felt ready to burst. Somehow the idea of dying on the spot, leaving her captors in an unexpected bind, struck her as rather funny.

  Assuming they didn't intend to kill her anyway.

  As Tillery forced her toward the waiting Cutlass, she saw the driver, Ray Surber, standing nonchalantly beside the open door, eyeing her thoughtfully, one arm thrown carelessly across the roof of the car. He was tall, with coarse, graying hair and a scrubby beard. Lewd tattoos covered both of his bare arms, and his deep blue eyes looked both intelligent and cruel. He couldn't be any younger than forty, Courtney guessed.

  He bore little, if any resemblance to his brother's sons.

  "Your choice of friends could be better," he said to her in an unexpectedly smooth, urbane voice. "Damn shame." Then, to Tillery, he said, "Put her in the trunk," and tossed him the keys.

  "Wait," she said, digging her heels into the ground, vainly trying to impede her captor's progress. "Come on, don't do this."

  The response was a sudden tug on her arm that nearly sent her sprawling. Tillery then shoved her down to her knees while he opened the trunk. He tossed the keys back to Ray and then, without a word, grabbed her around the waist, effortlessly hefted her up, and dropped her into the well, her head painfully striking its metal edge. Before she could even shift her position, the trunk door came slamming down, closing her in total darkness.

  The sound echoed through her skull until the bone felt as if it would crack. She was lying awkwardly on one arm, and she struggled to shift her weight off it, barely able to move in the cramped compartment. The air reeked of gasoline and oil, quickly becoming suffocating. She knew beating on the top of the trunk was pointless, but she did it anyway and unleashed one long cry of white-hot rage.

  Two doors slammed and the engine started, followed by a numbing jolt as the car began to move. She braced herself by lying on her side and tucking her body against the forward wall, pressing her feet against the end of the well. After a minute, the worst of the jostling passed, and she could feel the car picking up speed, evidently back on the paved road. She assumed they were driving back toward town, but even if she could estimate how far they went and how many turns the car made, she didn't know the local roads well enough to guess their destination.

  She had never been claustrophobic, but the close darkness and the knowledge that this might be the last ride of her life quickly overwhelmed her. The petroleum odor crawled like a cold worm into her throat and lungs until she feared she might gag. But the intolerable idea of vomiting on herself prompted her to regulate her breathing as best she could, and after a time, the acrid stench lost its edge.

  On and on they went, and she didn't even know if their captors were even taking Jan and her to the same place. She felt around, searching for a tire iron or some other instrument she could use as a weapon, but Ray Surber had apparently emptied the trunk specifically to accommodate her. The idea that someone had actually orchestrated her abduction and prepared some unknown fate for her sent her stomach lurching again. Somehow, she had a feeling that Dwayne Surber must also have had a hand in all this. Close-knit the family might be, but Hank had been Dwayne's son.

  The last few minutes, the ride was bumpy and evidently slow. When the car finally made a sharp turn and came to a stop, she guessed they'd been traveling for at least fifteen minutes. She shifted into a facedown position, drawing up her right leg and putting her weight on her knee so that when the trunk opened, she might have enough leverage to spring out and surprise the bastard coming to get her. But the compartment was too tight, and when the trunk did pop open,
she didn't even succeed at heaving herself upright, much less out of the well itself.

  An ocean of light swallowed her, blinding her temporarily, and a rough pair of hands again grabbed her, hauled her bodily out of the trunk, and set her on her feet, gripping her upper arms to keep her from falling.

  "Steady," came Ray Surber's low voice. "Just do what you're told and you'll be all right. You got me?"

  She glared at the older man without answering. The rage that came from helplessness, like that which had boiled up when Hank Surber had a knife at her throat, was burning in every muscle, and it wouldn't take much to send her into a frenzied attack, without regard for her own life — or her friend's. She forced herself to remain outwardly docile, if not for her sake, then for Jan's.

  The pickup truck had parked behind the Cutlass, and Ben Surber and George Tillery were manhandling a bound Jan out of the cramped rear seat of the cab. The vehicles were parked in front of a crumbling wooden cabin surrounded by towering trees, whose branches formed a thick green canopy over the sharply angled roof. Pools of black water and clusters of reeds painted a dark mosaic around the bases of the trunks, and the raucous calls of birds Courtney had never heard before rang like eerie sirens from the depths of the swamp.

  Ben had hefted Jan over his shoulder and was carrying her toward the cabin door. Tillery followed close behind, holding a battered brown briefcase in one hand and a revolver in the other. Ray's friend Johnny Spencer, a lanky, weathered-looking man of about thirty, had already gone up to the porch and was unlocking the door. Ray gave Courtney a shove.

  "Move."

  Something splashed off to the right, and she heard a heavy, sledgehammer thump. Then another. And another.

  Tillery paused for a moment, his tiny, marble-like eyes peering into the darkness beneath the trees. "Whatzat?"

  "Nothing," Ben said, stepping up onto the rickety front porch. "Let's get 'em inside."

  Ray had also paused and was staring into the trees in the direction of the sound. Courtney caught a glimpse of something tall and pale moving against the dark foliage far in the distance.

  "Oh, God, no," she whispered, her heart nearly bursting. "Not that."

  "You see something?" Tillery said to Ray, standing on the short flight of stairs to the porch.

  Ray continued to stare, one hand crushing her neck. Finally, he shook his head and said, "No." Then he started forward, this time dragging her with him, and one of her mud-splattered pumps slipped from her foot. He clumped up the stairs, followed Tillery into the house, pulling Courtney with him, and then turned and pushed the door shut.

  They were inside a small, sparsely furnished room, its walls peeling, the ceiling stained and cracking. Grimy windows faced the front and one side of the house, and a crooked archway led to another room filled with dark shadows. Without hesitating or bothering to turn on any lights, Ben carried Jan into the next room, and Courtney heard a heavy thump as he dropped his burden to the floor.

  Ray followed, keeping a tight grip on Courtney's neck and arm, his hands seemingly strong enough to snap her neck with little effort. She saw Jan lying on her side, her feet bound together, hands tied behind her back, and a bandana stuffed cruelly into her mouth. She sent Courtney a pleading look and moaned softly behind the gag. Ben stood over her, a satisfied grin pasted on his ugly face.

  The room might have been a dining room at one time. Now, only a single wooden chair occupied the center of the room. A ratty brown carpet covered the sagging floor, and thick curtains blocked what little light might have stolen through the single window. A narrow door opened to another pit of shadows, and Ray began dragging Courtney toward it.

  "I'm not going to gag you," he said to her. "The first sound you make, I'm going to kick the shit out of you and then sew your lips together. If you think I'm joking, think again. My friend Johnny's got some interesting tools in that briefcase of his." His eyes burned into hers. "Do you understand?"

  She nodded, her throat too dry to speak.

  He turned her to face a blank wall and released her. "Don't move," he said. "If you do, I'll hurt you."

  She heard him fumbling with something, and a few moments later, one of the strong hands grabbed her right arm, and she felt a length of coarse rope looping around her wrist. He pulled her other arm back and deftly tied her wrists together so that there was no play, but not so tight as to cut off her circulation.

  He must have experience with this, she thought. Her heart's pounding still nearly deafened her.

  "You just keep still," he said, his tone gentle. "I really don't want to have to hurt you."

  Next thing she knew, her remaining shoe came off and another length of rope was encircling her ankles. Ray drew it around several times and then knotted it securely, just shy of painful. He then took hold of her shoulders and gently pushed her down, forcing her knees to bend, until she was seated on her haunches. She noticed a long tear in the front of her skirt.

  "Didn't want you to fall," he said. "Now, I'm going to leave you in here. Like I said, you keep quiet, and everything will be okay. Our problem isn't with you. That doesn't mean I won't do what I have to if you get out of hand. You clear on that, Ms. Edmiston?"

  Unable to do otherwise, she nodded.

  "All right," he said, pointing into her face. "Not one word out of you. If I hear you speak, I'll have Johnny hold you down, and I'll do a little stitchery on your face."

  She nodded again, and Ray lowered his finger, apparently satisfied. He turned and left the room, and a second later, she heard a bolt sliding home on the other side.

  Her pent-up rage could not sustain itself indefinitely, and now that they had left her alone, it began to wane a little. She sat in a tiny room — a closet, perhaps — with no windows, the only light coming from beneath the door and a narrow split in the wall near the ceiling. They were somewhere out in the middle of the damned swamp, God knew how far from help, even if they could escape.

  And that thing. The Monarch. It was out there, as real as life.

  What was it going to do? Burst in and kill them all? Watch and wait?

  What in the living hell was it?

  She half-expected to hear the heavy, pounding footsteps outside the cabin, but for countless ages, she heard nothing — from either the outdoors or the other room. The longer the silence inside the house, the more it overshadowed her fear of the nebulous thing she had seen in the swamp.

  The Surbers must own the cabin, she thought. It looked to have been unused for years, though they had obviously prepared it for whatever they intended to do now. She carefully shifted her position, to see if she could slip her arms under her rear end and pull her feet up between her bound wrists, so her hands would at least be in front of her. No — not enough play in the rope. So she rolled onto her side so that her weight wasn't on her hands, and she tried to relax. Chances were good she would be here a long time.

  A couple of low voices — masculine — rumbled from the other side of the door. She shifted closer to it, hoping to make out what they were saying, but the only thing she could discern was Ben Surber's voice saying "…remove your gag."

  A few seconds later, there came a scuffling sound, followed by Jan's long, agonized scream.

  Chapter 15

  Horror rushed over and through her like an icy torrent, but taking Ray at his word for what would happen to her, she bit her lip to keep from calling her friend's name. Any one of these men might commit brutal murder, and together, they formed a single, rabid, conscienceless animal. Tears scalded her eyes, but she could not wipe them away.

  More muffled voices trickled beneath the door, which must be heavier than it looked, she thought. Another dull thump, like the weight of a body falling to the floor.

  Another scream from Jan, this time cut short.

  Courtney felt her gorge rising again, and she turned her focus to the growing pain in her wrists and ankles, the throbbing in her head, anything other than her fluttering stomach and the threat of retching.


  More banging from the other room. A harsh voice growling, "Fucking bitch."

  Then a voice — Tillery's, she thought — came through clearly. "I want the other one."

  "Not yet." Ray's voice.

  Right now, the elder Surber seemed loath to harm her, yet of all of them, he struck her as the most dangerous. His more refined demeanor and evident intelligence suggested that he might be capable of far worse than his cruder, more volatile companions.

  And still, she could not escape the feeling that his brother Dwayne might be the brains behind this abduction, and Ray acting as his capable executive.

  For a time, little sound came from beyond the door — just an occasional groan or soft whimper — and somehow this seemed even worse because she could only guess what was happening. But then a shrill scream exploded from Jan's lungs, which sent Courtney cowering into a corner, pulling her knees up to her chest, silent, bitter sobs racking her body.

  Finally, such a long silence followed that she feared Jan might be dead. Not even a whisper or mutter from any of the men.

  A distant door slammed, probably from the front of the house. A few seconds later, the sound of a car door closing, followed by an engine grinding to life. Ben's truck, she thought.

  Was it Ben leaving, or one of the others?

  Another long silence, and she realized that her senses were becoming dull, her eyes getting heavier. Through the crack near the ceiling, the sunlight appeared to be waning.

  How the hell long had she been here? She had lost all track of time. It might be three in the afternoon or seven in the evening. Her arms and legs had gone completely numb, her nose itched, and dried tears had turned her cheeks brittle. She shifted her position and shook her legs to try to restore the circulation. The pins and needles that gradually began to stab her feet were actually a relief. She could do very little to help her arms except roll her shoulders back and forth.