Leonard and Farto tossed off their warm Coke and whiskey and dropped the cups on the ground.
“Now,” Pork said, “you get in the back with the nigger, I’ll ride with the driver.”
Farto got in the back and put his feet on Scott’s knees. He tried not to look at the head wrapped in newspaper, but he couldn’t help it. When Pork opened the front door and the overhead light came on Farto saw there was a split in the paper and Scott’s eye was visible behind it. Across the forehead the wrapping had turned dark. Down by the mouth and chin was an ad for a fish sale.
Leonard got behind the wheel and started the car. Pork reached over and honked the horn. Vinnie rolled the pickup forward and Leonard followed him to the river bottoms. No one spoke. Leonard found himself wishing with all his heart that he had gone to the outdoor picture show to see the movie with the nigger starring in it.
The river bottoms were steamy and hot from the closeness of the trees and the under and overgrowth. As Leonard wound the Impala down the narrow, red clay roads amidst the dense foliage, he felt as if his car were a crab crawling about in a pubic thatch. He could feel from the way the steering wheel handled that the dog and the chain were catching brush and limbs here and there. He had forgotten all about the dog and now being reminded of it worried him. What if the dog got tangled and he had to stop? He didn’t think Pork would take kindly to stopping, not with the dead burrhead on the floorboards and him wanting to get rid of the body.
Finally they came to where the woods cleared out a spell and they drove along the edge of the Sabine River. Leonard hated water and always had. In the moonlight the river looked like poisoned coffee flowing there. Leonard knew there were alligators and gars big as little alligators and water moccasins by the thousands swimming underneath the water, and just the thought of all those slick, darting bodies made him queasy.
They came to what was known as Broken Bridge. It was an old worn-out bridge that had fallen apart in the middle and it was connected to the land on this side only. People sometimes fished off of it. There was no one fishing tonight.
Vinnie stopped the pickup and Leonard pulled up beside it, the nose of the Chevy pointing at the mouth of the bridge. They all got out and Pork made Farto pull Scott out by the feet. Some of the newspapers came loose from Scott’s head exposing an ear and part of the face. Farto patted the newspaper back into place.
“Fuck that,” Vinnie said. “It don’t hurt if he stains the fucking ground. You two idgits find some stuff to weight this coon down so we can sink him.”
Farto and Leonard started scurrying about like squirrels, looking for rocks or big, heavy logs. Suddenly they heard Vinnie cry out. “Godamighty, fucking A. Pork. Come look at this.”
Leonard looked over and saw that Vinnie had discovered Rex. He was standing looking down with his hands on his hips. Pork went over to stand by him, then Pork turned around and looked at them. “Hey, you fucks, come here.”
Leonard and Farto joined them in looking at the dog. There was mostly just a head now, with a little bit of meat and fur hanging off a spine and some broken ribs.
“That’s the sickest fucking thing I’ve ever fucking seen,” Pork said.
“Godamighty,” Vinnie said.
“Doing a dog like that. Shit, don’t you got no heart? A dog. Man’s best fucking goddamn friend and you two killed him like this.”
“We didn’t kill him,” Farto said.
“You trying to fucking tell me he done this to himself? Had a bad fucking day and done this.”
“Godamighty,” Vinnie said.
“No, sir,” Leonard said. “We chained him on there after he was dead.”
“I believe that,” Vinnie said. “That’s some rich shit. You guys murdered this dog. Godamighty.”
“Just thinking about him trying to keep up and you fucks driving faster and faster makes me mad as a wasp,” Pork said.
“No,” Farto said. “It wasn’t like that. He was dead and we were drunk and we didn’t have anything to do, so we—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Pork said, sticking a finger hard against Farto’s forehead. “You just shut the fuck up. We can see what the fuck you fucks did. You drug this here dog around until all his goddamn hide came off … What kind of mothers you boys got anyhow that they didn’t tell you better about animals?”
“Godamighty,” Vinnie said.
Everyone grew silent, stood looking at the dog. Finally Farto said, “You want us to go back to getting some stuff to hold the nigger down?”
Pork looked at Farto as if he had just grown up whole from the ground. “You fucks are worse than niggers, doing a dog like that. Get on back over to the car.”
Leonard and Farto went over to the Impala and stood looking down at Scott’s body in much the same way they had stared at the dog. There, in the dim moonlight shadowed by trees, the paper wrapped around Scott’s head made him look like a giant papier-mâché doll. Pork came up and kicked Scott in the face with a swift motion that sent newspapers flying and sent a thonking sound across the water that made frogs jump.
“Forget the nigger,” Pork said. “Give me your car keys, ball sweat.” Leonard took out his keys and gave them to Pork and Pork went around to the trunk and opened it. “Drag the nigger over here.”
Leonard took one of Scott’s arms and Farto took the other and they pulled him over to the back of the car.
“Put him in the trunk,” Pork said.
“What for?” Leonard asked.
“’Cause I fucking said so,” Pork said.
Leonard and Farto heaved Scott into the trunk. He looked pathetic lying there next to the spare tire, his face partially covered with newspaper. Leonard thought, if only the nigger had stolen a car with a spare he might not be here tonight. He could have gotten that flat changed and driven on before the White Tree boys even came along.
“All right, you get in there with him,” Pork said, gesturing to Farto.
“Me?” Farto said.
“Nah, not fucking you, the fucking elephant on your fucking shoulder. Yeah, you, get in the trunk. I ain’t got all night.”
“Jesus, we didn’t do anything to that dog, mister. We told you that. I swear. Me and Leonard hooked him up after he was dead … It was Leonard’s idea.”
Pork didn’t say a word. He just stood there with one hand on the trunk lid looking at Farto. Farto looked at Pork, then the trunk, then back to Pork. Lastly he looked at Leonard, then climbed into the trunk, his back to Scott.
“Like spoons,” Pork said, and closed the lid. “Now you, whatsit, Leonard? You come over here.” But Pork didn’t wait for Leonard to move. He scooped the back of Leonard’s neck with a chubby hand and pushed him over to where Rex lay at the end of the chain with Vinnie still looking down at him.
“What you think, Vinnie?” Pork asked. “You got what I got in mind?”
Vinnie nodded. He bent down and took the collar off the dog. He fastened it on Leonard. Leonard could smell the odor of the dead dog in his nostrils. He bent his head and puked.
“There goes my shoeshine,” Vinnie said, and he hit Leonard a short one in the stomach. Leonard went to his knees and puked some more of the hot Coke and whiskey.
“You fucks are the lowest pieces of shit on this earth, doing a dog like that,” Vinnie said. “A nigger ain’t no lower.”
Vinnie got some strong fishing line out of the back of the truck and they tied Leonard’s hands behind his back. Leonard began to cry.
“Oh shut up,” Pork said. “It ain’t that bad. Ain’t nothing that bad.”
But Leonard couldn’t shut up. He was caterwauling now and it was echoing through the trees. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he had gone to the show with the nigger starring in it and had fallen asleep in his car and was having a bad dream, but he couldn’t imagine that. He thought about Harry the janitor’s flying saucers with the peppermint rays, and he knew if there were any saucers shooting rays down, they weren’t boredom rays after all. He wasn’t a bi
t bored.
Pork pulled off Leonard’s shoes and pushed him back flat on the ground and pulled off the socks and stuck them in Leonard’s mouth so tight he couldn’t spit them out. It wasn’t that Pork thought anyone was going to hear Leonard, he just didn’t like the noise. It hurt his ears.
Leonard lay on the ground in the vomit next to the dog and cried silently. Pork and Vinnie went over to the Impala and opened the doors and stood so they could get a grip on the car to push. Vinnie reached in and moved the gear from park to neutral and he and Pork began to shove the car forward. It moved slowly at first, but as it made the slight incline that led down to the old bridge, it picked up speed. From inside the trunk, Farto hammered lightly at the lid as if he didn’t really mean it. The chain took up slack and Leonard felt it jerk and pop his neck. He began to slide along the ground like a snake.
Vinnie and Pork jumped out of the way and watched the car make the bridge and go over the edge and disappear into the water with amazing quietness. Leonard, pulled by the weight of the car, rustled past them. When he hit the bridge, splinters tugged at his clothes so hard they ripped his pants and underwear down almost to his knees.
The chain swung out once toward the edge of the bridge and the rotten railing, and Leonard tried to hook a leg around an upright board there, but that proved wasted. The weight of the car just pulled his knee out of joint and jerked the board out of place with a screech of nails and lumber.
Leonard picked up speed and the chain rattled over the edge of the bridge, into the water and out of sight, pulling its connection after it like a pull toy. The last sight of Leonard was the soles of his bare feet, white as the bellies of fish.
“It’s deep there,” Vinnie said. “I caught an old channel cat there once, remember? Big sucker. I bet it’s over fifty-feet deep down there.”
They got in the truck and Vinnie cranked it.
“I think we did them boys a favor,” Pork said. “Them running around with niggers and what they did to that dog and all. They weren’t worth a thing.”
“I know it,” Vinnie said. “We should have filmed this, Pork, it would have been good. Where the car and that nigger lover went off in the water was choice.”
“Nah, there wasn’t any women.”
“Point,” Vinnie said, and he backed around and drove onto the trail that wound its way out of the bottoms.
Diary
Ronald Kelly
* * *
“Diary” was first published in Cemetery Dance magazine #3 in 1990.
‡
Ronald Kelly is the author of such Southern horror novels as Hindsight, Pitfall, Something Out There, Father’s Little Helper, The Possession, Fear, and Blood Kin. His audio collection, Dark Dixie: Tales of Southern Horror was nominated for a Grammy Award in 1992 for Best Spoken or Non-Musical Recording. His first short story collection, Midnight Grinding & Other Twilight Terrors, was published by Cemetery Dance Publications in 2009, and his latest novel, Hell Hollow, was released in 2010. His upcoming publications include Undertaker’s Moon, After the Burn, Cumberland Furnace & Other Fear-Forged Fables, and the Essential Ronald Kelly Collection.
He lives in Brush Creek, Tennessee with his wife and three young’uns.
† † †
This was my first truly extreme horror story. Upon publication, Richard Chizmar of Cemetery Dance Magazine said “This tale is much darker and nastier than your typical Ronald Kelly story”, and he was right. I broke past some personal barriers, fiction-wise, with Diary and I haven’t let up since.
* * *
August 21
They want to know why I killed those people in Tennessee. They want to know why a no-account bum like Jerry Weller crossed paths with the All-American family and systematically tortured, raped, and slaughtered them, one by one. They seem very insistent for answers. But I give them none. I only counter their questions with questions of my own. Why did Satan drive me to commit such atrocities? Why did God allow such atrocities to take place?
They think they have me pegged. They brand me a violent psychopath and spout their psychiatric crap, but they’re still missing the point. If they weren’t so damned stupid, they would be able to look into my eyes and see the squirming, maggot-infested soul that lies decaying within.
You see, perversity is my forte.
It is normality that drives me insane.
* * *
August 29
My parents didn’t tell me for a very long time that I once had a twin brother. When they did, they only said that he had died shortly after birth. I knew they were concealing all the gory details. Eventually, they told me the whole story … and, boy, was it a doozy!
It seems that there were once twin brothers named Jerry and Jamie. Shortly after their arrival home from the hospital, Mom and Dad went out for a night on the town, leaving the little ones in the care of teenaged babysitter Caroline. An hour later, Caroline’s beatnik boyfriend, Rodney, showed up with a big bag of goodies. There was much drinking and pot smoking and airplane glue sniffing. Soon, Caroline and Rodney had gotten wildly high and thought it would be incredibly funny to put little Jamie in the kitchen oven. They chug-a-lugged vodka and reds as they turned the flame to the max and cooked the squawling infant like a meatloaf.
Supposedly, I witnessed the whole thing, but I don’t remember. Hell, I was only three months old at the time.
Those freaking junkheads had the right idea, but they made one mistake.
They baked the wrong gingerbread boy.
* * *
September 5
How about a nice bedtime story?
Once upon a time there was a clean-cut, All-American family. They never fought with one another, they attended church regularly, and lived by the Golden Rule. They lived in a cozy, suburban home, drove a Volvo, and sent their children to public school … just like those perfect television families of the fifties and sixties—the Nelsons, the Cleavers, the Brady Bunch.
One summer, this family decided to take a trip to Smoky Mountain National Park. They took snapshots of the sights, watched the Cherokee Indians do their rain dance, and found a secluded campsite so they could commune with nature and enjoy the great outdoors. They sang songs, roasted marshmallows over the campfire, and swapped ghost stories. They had a wonderful time.
Then the man showed up out of nowhere, wearing a friendly smile and a stolen park ranger’s uniform.
* * *
September 12
When I was six years old, I would visit my grandmother. She had this sweet, little canary named Penny. Penny would fly right out of its cage in the corner of Grandmother’s sewing room and land in the palm of your hand. It would sit perfectly still and sing you the most beautiful song.
One day, while Grandmother was out working in her flower garden, I slipped into the sewing room and opened Penny’s door. It flew out of its cage and lit lightly in my hand.
“Sing me a song, Penny,” I said, but it remained silent.
I took a straight pin from Grandmother’s sewing basket and shoved it into Penny’s little, black eye. It pierced the bird’s tiny brain and emerged out the other side.
Penny sang me a song then, a very loud and frantic song … but not for very long.
* * *
September 23
Bedtime story. Part Two.
The park ranger said hello, sat down beside the fire, and drank a cup of coffee offered to him. As pleasant conversation was exchanged, he studied the All-American family. Father, mother, gray-haired grandmother, and two children, a boy and a girl. He enjoyed their company for a while, as long as he could possibly stand it. And then that damned urge crept into his demented mind …
* * *
October 7
They sent me to reform school when I was seventeen for cutting off my girlfriend’s breasts with a pocket knife. After all these years, I still haven’t figured out what my true motive had been. Maybe someday I’ll call her up at the state asylum and ask her if she remembers why I d
id such a horrible thing.
* * *
October 14
Bedtime story. Part Three.
Father went first.
The friendly park ranger took a hunting knife from his belt and, with an upward thrust, drove the point up under Father’s jaw. The razor-honed blade sliced effortlessly up through his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and into his tender brain. He fell forward into the campfire and burnt his face off while the ranger rounded up the rest of the All-American family …
* * *
October 19
My attorney wanted me to go for an insanity plea. I fired him and got myself another lawyer with a less attractive track record.
I keep telling them what I want, but they don’t seem to take me seriously.
I want to fry.
I want the juice to surge through my body until my veins pop and I begin to sizzle like a slab of raw meat on a hot griddle.
* * *
October 31
Bedtime story. Part Four.
My, Grandma, what big eyes you have … lying in the palm of my hand.
* * *
November 4
Boy, do I miss Nam. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep, I miss it so.
I volunteered to go, you know. Not because I was patriotic, but because I heard there was a lot of weird shit going on over there. Some of the other grunts thought I was nuts for signing up, but they didn’t understand. They all hated the Nam, while, for me, it was pure paradise.
The first day there, the platoon sergeant took us cherries out behind a quonset hut. There were four dead gooks lying in a ditch, riddled with bullet holes and flies. The sarge made us get down into that ditch and kick them in the head. He said it was to drive the squeamishness out of our systems before he turned us loose in the jungle. He made us kick and kick and kick until their skulls split open and their brains covered our combat boots.
Some of the guys puked their pussy guts up. I would have been down in that ditch all day if they hadn’t pulled me out.
Be all that you can be …
Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror Page 6