by Gina Ranalli
“Stop it!” she yelled. “Sam, get a hold of yourself! What’s wrong with you?”
“This fucking prick!” Sam raged. “He’s a fucking liar!” He tried reaching for the knife, which still pierced Cash’s chest but Helena got there first, pulling it free and holding it behind her back.
“You need to calm down!” she commanded.
“You want me to calm down? Give me the fucking knife!”
“What’s going on?” Quinn stood in the doorway, looking in at them with concern.
Both Helena and Sam froze, as though caught in the act of doing something atrocious. In a way, Helena supposed they were.
Head still hanging down, Justin Cash began to laugh. A quiet chuckle at first, slowing building into what eventually became howling peels of something close to hysteria.
The three hunters stared at him as he threw his head back and roared laughter at the ceiling. Helena noticed that his arm had begun to heal, the flayed skin drying and falling to the floor like sinking ash as new skin knitted itself over the open wound. It was not unlike watching a time lapse film of a flower springing from dirt as a small green sprig and then growing taller and stronger until it became a bulb which in turn blossomed into a bright, colorful tulip.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam whispered, vocalizing what Helena was thinking.
Still in the doorway, Quinn said, “They can’t be killed, can they?”
Gathering herself, Helena replied, “Of course they can. Beheading. Burning. Everything can be killed.”
“But…” Quinn trailed off, at a loss for words.
“Son of a bitch,” Sam said. In other circumstances, Helena would probably have found his inability to say anything other than curses amusing. But now she was worried.
“What did he tell you?” she asked him.
Sam looked at her. “What?”
“You said he was a liar. What did he tell you?”
This question amused Cash even further, his face flushing red with uncontrollable laughter, tears now streaming down his face.
“Doesn’t matter,” Sam said and pushed past Helena first, then Quinn, leaving them alone with the bellowing monster.
“What did you say to him?” Helena asked. “And what the hell is so fucking funny?”
Cash took no notice of her, or her question. She took a step towards him and held the knife to his throat.
“I asked you a question, scumbag.”
“Sorry,” Cash gasped, trying to get his laughter under control. “Really. I’m s…sorry.”
Quinn stepped up beside Helena and said, “Call me crazy but he doesn’t seem sorry to me.”
Helena resisted the urge to shoot him a look and pressed the blade harder into Cash’s neck, just beneath his Adam’s apple.
“Like I said, beheading has worked nicely in the past,” she said. “If you’re betting I won’t do it again, that’s a bet you’ll absolutely lose.”
“Fine.” Cash said. “Fine. Have it your way. But you’re gonna be sorry. So just let me say this right now: don’t behead the messenger, okay?”
Helena gritted her teeth, pressing the blade against his skin harder still. She was about to issue her final threat when he spoke again.
“Melosia Fierro is alive and well.” He paused, watching her face, then added, “Well, alive and well being relative terms, of course.”
Feeling every muscle in her body stiffen, Helena couldn’t think of a single response to this information. Her first reaction was the same as Sam’s had been: Cash was lying.
Cash said, “Her last name is Rose now though. She married your father John, if you can believe that. Oh, yeah. He’s alive too. Probably should mention that as well.” He smiled at her then, and for just a second she thought she caught a glimpse of the handsome, young man he’d once been, a very long time ago.
She plunged the knife into his throat, slashing deep. Blood sprayed, splashing up into her face in a warm torrent. The look of surprise on his face was almost comical, she thought. Who was laughing now?
“Sam’s right,” she hissed through red-stained teeth. “You are a fucking liar.”
Gagging, gasping for air, Cash thrashed in the chair, held fast by the silver chains that burned his flesh where they touched him.
Quinn rushed forward, pulling Helena away from the monster in much the same way she had pulled Sam only moments ago.
“Fucking die,” she shouted, struggling to get out of Quinn’s grasp. “Die, you fuck! Die!”
“Helena, stop!” Quinn managed to pull her hands behind her back. The knife clattered to the cement floor with a dull metal sound. “Stop!”
Cash wasn’t going to die. She knew that. Not unless she severed the head from the body and buried each in separate places. Burning them would be good too, but even using those methods, shit could be undone. Bones could be used, body parts reunited. Killing them wasn’t easy, but they could suffer. And she wanted this lying prick to suffer. Maybe it was even better than killing him. Certainly it would be in the long run.
She relaxed, stopped fighting to free herself from Quinn and after a few seconds, he released his grip on her.
“You cool?” he asked with trepidation.
“I’m cool.” She brushed wild strands of hair from her face, feeling the sticky, warm fluid she was now drenched in. She was revolted but also somehow pleased to be covered in the monster’s gore. It made her feel like a victorious warrior and she understood the desire for trophies. She longed to snatch the knife up and scalp the thing, wear it on her belt and show it off as a symbol of pride and conquest.
She had cut him deep and it would take a while for Cash to heal completely from the wound inflicted upon his throat. Maybe twenty minutes instead of the usual ten or so, but she would use the time wisely.
Abruptly, she left the root cellar and met Sam upstairs. He was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He looked up when she entered, half his face in shadow.
“Did you kill it?” he asked, taking in her blood-soaked status.
“No.”
She went to the cupboard and grabbed a glass for herself before taking a seat opposite him and helping herself to the booze. She drained two shots worth in one swallow, enjoying the burn.
“Sure sounded like it,” Sam said.
After pouring herself more alcohol, she asked, “Is he telling the truth?”
Sam looked down, appearing to study the depths within his glass. “It’s possible,” he admitted.
Helena couldn’t believe her ears. It took her several minutes before she spoke again. “And you knew?”
“No, I…I didn’t know for sure, anyway. I’d caught an inkling now and then. Talk from other hunters and whatnot. Nothing definite. It was just…talk.” He took another swallow. “I’m sorry, Helena. I know I should have told you, but I just…didn’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“My hopes,” she snapped. “You raised me as a fucking orphan and you didn’t want to get my hopes up?”
“Easy,” he cautioned. “Don’t go flying off the handle.”
She wiped a hand across her face and refused to meet his gaze, looking instead towards the windows over the sink.
“If it’s true,” Sam said carefully.
She interrupted him. “They’re like him. They’re monsters.”
The half of his face that was not in shadow trembled. Not much, but enough. “Yes,” he said finally.
CHAPTER 11
The day after the gas station slaughter, the Rumblers were holed up again in yet another abandoned farm house on the edge of some mostly forgotten shithole of a town. It was a windy day but bright and sunny enough that they did not yet have to light any candles while inside.
They all sat together on a back porch, looking out at field bordered by a dense forest, Melosia and John on an old, nearly dilapidated porch swing, Walt on an equally dilapidated railing and Bliss and Opal seated on the stairs, their backs to the others.
; “What we need,” Walt was saying, “is an RV like the one we used to have. No more of this changing in the backseat bullshit. Think about it. We could have beds, hot water, a refrigerator for the beer.”
It was a good idea, Bliss knew. The only thing that made him trepidatious about it was how much RVs tended to stand out when not in a mobile home park. And mobile home parks meant friendly people and friendly people were dangerous. Not as dangerous as the Rumblers were to them, but dangerous nonetheless. Friendly people asked questions, remembered faces and names and license plates. They invited strangers to meals, usually pot lucks, and wanted to do things like play cards or talk politics. They could be a real bother and Bliss wasn’t sure he was up for that just now.
“Yes, cold beer is the most important thing,” Melosia said, causing everyone to crack up.
Bliss tuned out the banter. His mind was on Joshua Meadows. They were now an hour’s drive from the cemetery where he would be planted the next day and Bliss was getting anxious to meet the fella. He wondered how it would go. Would Meadows’s first order of business be to look up the skirt of a second grader or would he recognize the true opportunity Bliss had given him? A second chance, in a way.
Opal distracted him from his thoughts when she took his hand in hers, causing him to glance at her. He felt a wave of pity. She was still clinging to human feelings and habits, despite the fact she was no longer human at all and probably didn’t have those feelings anymore. She was behaving out of habit.
He yanked his hand away, ignoring the hurt look she gave him.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked in a low voice, presumably to keep the others from hearing.
It didn’t work. All conversation stopped and Bliss could feel eyes on his back.
“I ain’t your boyfriend, darlin’,” he told her. “You need to put that idea out of your head right quick.”
She went from hurt to angry in half a second flat.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to be!”
“All right then. Glad we’re on the same page.”
Opal made a huffing sound, quickly got to her feet and went into the house. Bliss thought she probably would have slammed the door if there had been one to slam but it had been removed, probably years ago judging by the amount of dead leaves and other debris that had blown into the kitchen and through the rest of the house.
He sighed, pushed his hat back on his head and looked up at the sky. Still clear but the temperature was dropping. Soon it would be winter. His mind wandered back to Meadows and he was glad he’d be meeting him tomorrow. Winter was not a good season for digging up bodies; the ground froze and digging became more difficult. They would probably be heading south soon, maybe down to the bayou, which was one of his favorite places to be, no matter what time of year it was. He was at home in the swamp, the humidity and the green air.
“You gonna go after her?” Melosia asked.
Without turning, he knew she was addressing him. “What for?”
“She might take off if you don’t.”
Bliss considered this. Would she? After all, Cash had. For almost the same reason, too. Some folks felt it necessary to be the favorite of a bunch, the one daddy loved most of all.
Something crashed inside the house, causing him to look around towards the doorway. He half expected a chair or something to come flying out from the threshold, aimed in his direction. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d pissed off a woman to that degree. It was a knack he had.
“I rest my case,” Melosia said, looking amused. The guys laughed and Bliss faced the empty field again.
“I think I’d best leave her be for now,” he said. “I like my face just how it is.”
Further smashing sounds came from within the house.
Laughing, Walt said, “Damn, Gunnar. You leave her at the altar or what?”
Bliss ran a hand over his stubbly cheek and went back to regarding the sky. No trouble was brewing up there and he vaguely wished he could turn himself into something with wings. Opal might turn out to be more hassle than she was worth.
The thuds and noises continued for a few more minutes and then there was blessed silence. The others went back to their small talk and jokes and Bliss returned to his longing memories of the Deep South, where everything seemed easier somehow.
“Guys.”
Opal’s voice made him turn again, once more concerned a projectile might be headed for him.
Much to his relief, she stood in the doorway empty handed, though he couldn’t quite read her expression. Worry? Fear?
His first thought was that they must have company. Townies or cops? Either would be bad.
“I think I fucked up,” she said.
“Fucked up how?” John asked, barely interested.
“Fucked up the G-man!” Walt hooted, highly amused with himself.
“You should see this,” Opal said to Bliss.
He cleared his throat. “See what, darlin’?”
She waved him towards her and disappeared back inside the house, out of sight.
“Oh, Lord,” he muttered, rising from the steps and turning around.
“She wants you to see something, Gun,” Walt cackled and took a slug from his ever-present flask. “Wonder what it might be.”
For about the thousandth time, Bliss wondered why he kept that fool around and then he went into the house. Opal wasn’t in the kitchen, so he traveled through the living room and into the dining room where he finally found her. She had picked up a table leg and now it rested against her right shoulder like a baseball bat.
Bliss groaned. “What are you plannin’ to do with that, darling’?”
Opal scowled and pointed at a hole in the wall. A large hole.
It was dark in there but it only took Bliss a second of peering to see the body.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch.” He walked over. “You did this?”
“I hit the wall with this leg and there she was,” Opal said.
The corpse within the wall had been there a long time. A decade at least. It wasn’t much more than a dry husk at this point- husk in a pale, flowered house dress with stringy wisps of blonde hair clinging to the desiccated scalp.
Leaning forward to examine it more closely, Bliss said, “Don’t worry about it. Not our problem.”
But then he saw movement and he knew better than to assume it was insects or a breeze. The corpse was reanimating, the blonde hair springing forth, the dry flesh moistening and filling out, muscles twitched.
He glared at Opal. “What the fuck did you do?”
She shrugged like a child caught in a cookie jar. “I just wanted to see if I could.”
Bliss whirled and slapped her hard across the face, shouting, “There’s rules, Opal! There’s a good fucking reason why I’m the only one who does this!”
Opal stumbled backwards, knocked off balance, pressing a hand to her cheek. “You fucking prick!” she snarled. “No one touches me!”
At that, Bliss’s hand curled into a fist and reared back but the rustling in the wall made him pause long enough to look over his shoulder. That was when the table leg cracked across the side of his head, sending his hat flying. He went to lunge for her, but suddenly was unable. John had him around the waist while Melosia held back Opal, each of the combatants violently resisting the constraints.
“Calm down,” John spoke into Bliss’s ear, sounding just as calm as a Buddhist monk. “Relax, man.”
“Hol-eee sh-eeet!” Walt exclaimed, ignoring the brawl and peering into the hole at the corpse. “Looks like we got a fresh one, boys and girls.”
Furious, Bliss shouted at Opal, “You did this, you’re gonna undo it, you hear me?”
“Fuck you!” she spat, struggling to break free of Melosia’s grip.
From the hole in the wall came moaning sounds accompanied by scratching.
“Fucking-A,” Walt said, still oblivious to the fight. “Looks like someone bashed her head in. It’s filling out, blowing u
p like a balloon.” He laughed. “Never did see the likes of this kind before.”
The rest of the Rumblers ceased what they were doing, all turning to watch a murdered young woman come back to life, her freshly reformed eyes opening like a newborn kitten’s, blinking and focusing, finally settling upon the strangers in her house.
CHAPTER 12
Still slumped forward in the chair, Justin Cash considered his options. The neck wound had stung quite a bit and he hadn’t been expecting it from the Rose woman. If he was going to die, he’d assumed it would be at the hands of Sam Cotton, that grizzled old bastard.
He was beginning to rethink the wisdom of his actions. Maybe he should have stayed with the Rumblers after all. He’d been unhappy, yes, but Bliss had treated him well and now he knew if he didn’t think of something quick, he was destined to become no more than ashes tossed into the wind. But the chains were strong-far stronger than him-and made of pure silver, a metal that burned and potentially scarred if its contact with skin was too lengthy. Bliss himself was living proof of that, with the crisscrossing, raised red stripes which decorated his torso, both front and back. According to the story he told, Bliss had been held prisoner in a dungeon-Cash assumed, much like this one-for close to a year before finally escaping. That had been before Cash’s time however-a lifetime ago.
Cash didn’t intend to be here anywhere near that long. He had to think of a plan, but as of right now, he knew he was screwed. He would have to somehow charm his way out of this predicament, convince the hunters he was on their side, which wouldn’t be difficult, as he was fairly certain that he actually was.
Listening to muffled conversation coming through the ceiling, he began to doze off but jerked awake again when the metal door swung open and the guy with glasses-Quinn-came into the room carrying something which made Cash instantly nervous.
It was an acetylene torch.
Quinn grinned at him as he dragged a chair over for himself, sitting in it backwards, his arms draped over the back.