Sleighton aimed the shotgun further into the cabin’s living space.
“In there, Nate,” he said.
Brady did as he was instructed, thinking that his life lasted for as long as it took them to locate Melanie. There was always the possibility that she made it into town and got Oviedo’s attention.
As soon as he passed into the living space proper, he saw a figure in the corner with something raised overhead.
Sleighton’s steps were right on his heels, and it was likely that he noticed the shape too. Brady heard the old chief’s mouth pop open in surprise as something cut through the air and knocked the old chief to the ground.
Melanie fell against Brady’s shoulder with a groan.
The cultist dashed in with his axe hoisted, but Brady already had him in the Glock’s sights. He double-tapped him in the head, dropping him where he stood and leaving only a cloud of blood to dissipate in the air.
“I heard you coming,” she said.
Brady looked between her and Sleighton with confusion. He was relived that she was alive, but dismayed that she hadn’t gotten to Oviedo.
The old chief squirmed around on the floor—a machete buried deep in his arm.
“How did you get here?” Brady asked.
“Hoyt,” she said as if the answer had been obvious, “he’s outside.”
“He’s not the only one,” Brady said. They had weapons now, and that meant keeping the Obviate at bay while they ran back to route twelve. He pointed to the injured ex-chief. “We’ll chain him up until Oviedo can get out here.”
He handed the shotgun off to Melanie and reached for his cuffs when Sleighton lunged up and knocked him off-balance. The retired cop scurried for the basement hatch, but Melanie was closer. She grabbed for him as he flung open the horizontal door.
“Bitch,” he growled, wrapping a hand around the shotgun’s stock and yanking it from her grip. It wasn’t a very graceful move, as he lost his balance on the tug, pulling the gun free but tumbling back through the open hatch.
He dropped through the darkness and there was a thud followed by an immediate whimper.
“Take them,” Sleighton said with slurred words. His voice trailed off as he shuffled away, repeating the invitation like a broken record.
“He went in pretty hard,” Melanie said. “He can’t last much longer.”
Brady was no longer concerned with keeping him alive. The old man had dug his grave. Trish was missing, possibly dead, and they were goners too if they stayed any longer.
“We’re out of here,” he said, and then they were both moving to the door.
They were almost out when Brady saw someone standing in the still-open doorway. He lifted his gun to the obstacle, but Melanie grabbed his arm and tugged his attention over to the nearest window. Another shape filled the pane, hot breath expanding against the glass.
A woman eyed them from the far side window. They were all over the place.
They’re not going to let us leave.
“Repent and submit!” They snarled as if mocking his realization.
Brady remembered his gun and took aim at the door. He wasn’t going to ask this time. “Be ready to move,” he whispered. “Can you run?”
Melanie nodded after some hesitation.
He squeezed off a round and the figure in the doorway crumpled against the jamb before sliding to the floor. They took cautious steps, edging closer to freedom. Melanie looked absolutely decrepit—how much further could she really go?
They were about to find out.
Two silhouettes stood just beyond the doorway. Behind them, another two. They all stood patiently, and without further motion. A look around the cabin confirmed that every window was occupied.
“The back door,” Melanie said.
He followed her into the kitchen. But the Obviate were there too, waiting outside. At least six of them. Melanie slammed the door in defeat.
“They’re trying to keep us in here,” Brady said. The realization brought him to the floor hatch. “There has to be a way out down there.”
“Only thing down there is death.”
“That’s what’s up here.” Around them, the Obviate pressed inward on the glass windows, and the panes cracked gently beneath their fingertips.
Christ, how many of them are out there?
He hovered over the hole and swallowed hard. “Come on, Melanie.”
She shook her head and backed off.
“It’s down there or back through the woods. I can’t fight them all off with the few shots I’ve got left. I need to get out of here and find Trish.”
Hands pushed in through every window at once, and glass rained down all around them. Two bottles smashed across the wooden floors, filling the cabin with alcoholic vapors. Brady didn’t have time to get Melanie to duck before the cabin went up in flames.
“No choice now,” he said and got to his knees.
Melanie’s bright blue eyes met his and they were scared.
There was chanting outside. “You die to prevent the end. As we have, so shall we always.”
“Go,” Brady screamed over the frenzied voices. “I’ll lower you down and be right behind you.”
His thoughts were frantic as they searched the cabin. There was no other way out. The Obviate guarded each window in overwhelming numbers and the flames were licking him from all sides. They were about to be sacrifices, flayed or not.
Melanie sat at the edge of the hole, her legs dangling over uncertain darkness. Brady gave her his arm as he got down on his stomach and lowered her into the cavern below.
Her eyes flashed from the ground below like a cat in headlights once she landed.
“Okay?” he asked.
“I am. Hurry.”
Brady spun onto his side to position himself for descent when a blade sliced through his hand and pinned him to the floor. He screamed out and tried prying the knife free.
An Obviate knelt beside him, pressing her knee to his throat. He recognized her as the town librarian.
“You’re dead,” she whispered, her body engulfed in flames. “If she survives down there, you must be the one to go beyond. I give my life to protect the others…” her throat bubbled and bled as the blaze surged over her in a wave.
The entire cabin was burning and Brady felt his hair singe all at once. He screamed as a ball of flame crawled his flesh, melting his clothes into his skin in a mess of blisters and boils. He screamed out in pain as the heat grew and grew with so much intensity that his eyeballs finally burst.
***
Alone.
Melanie stared up in disbelief as the cabin cracked apart in the fire.
Nate’s body sizzled some fifteen feet above, indolent fingers dangling down through the hatch.
Her spirit was as broken as her body, completely numb as she shambled through the dank subterranean depths. Blind fingers brushed at the air as she went, careful not to smash headfirst into any obstructions.
Her body couldn’t take any more damage.
If Sleighton had survived the fall, there was no sign of him that she could see—but that wasn’t much. The walls constricted around her shoulders as the ground sloped, and she raked her fingertips along them to keep what few bearings remained.
Drops of water fell into collected puddles out of sight, while unseen rats squeaked displeasure at her arrival. Despite everything trundling through her brain, she still shuddered at the thought of those things weaving in and out between her legs.
The hole got darker and colder. Something wet and fleshy smacked her forearm and she recoiled instinctively. Whatever it was, it occupied the very limited space she was passing through.
A puff of flame erupted ahead and, somehow, the candles lining the cavern floor were lit. There was no time to question this magic as the newfound light showed what was blocking the way: Sleighton’s corpse hung suspended from the cavern wall, a pickaxe embedded in his chest. The blade had torn through him, leaving smashed and broken rib bones ang
led inward from the blow. He’d been hit so hard, the axe pinned him several inches off the ground. A drawing pool of piss and blood collected at his feet.
Melanie grabbed the axe hilt and yanked it with all her might. It jiggled but would not dislodge. Shifting her weight, she pried forward with a grunt. Sleighton’s innards sloshed around in his chest cavity until it finally came free.
The chief fell into his own excrement and she left him a twisted heap, taking the nearest candle in her hand while gripping the bloodied pickaxe in the other.
The cave’s path was twisty, but the carved passage was the only way to go, meaning there was no danger of getting lost. Abblon and his cult must’ve chiseled this in whichever direction offered the least resistance. The walk was painful on her feet and even worse on her ribs.
Nate’s horrible scream remained constant in her mind. The way it rose and then severed without crescendo. Crisped fingers dangling in defeat—he hadn’t deserved that. He was trying to absolve Forest Grove of its long-standing sins—fifty years’ worth of them. Those thankless fools would never know the extent of his sacrifice.
Because now he was gone.
And I’m on my own.
It was impossible to get him out of her mind. After all they’d been through, it just couldn’t end this way. She might’ve known better than to believe in closure since she was going on twenty-five years without it, but this was going to take some grieving. And there was no time for that now. No sense in inflicting emotional pain when the physical endurance was bad enough.
If I get out of here, I’ll tell his story.
As if that somehow made his sacrifice better. She already planned to do the same for Bill, Jen, Lindsey, Tyler, Becky and Mr. Dugan. Adding Nate to that list just felt like a continued way of excusing the exploitation. She wouldn’t have needed to do it at all if Dennis hadn’t forced her hand.
And that little Cliff’s Notes-addicted fuck doll…
Melanie’s hand closed tight around the pickaxe, imaging what Jill Woreley’s face would look like after her head had been shattered by it.
Was she smiling at the thought?
A miner’s pick could do devastating damage to a skull. Taking away Jill Woreley’s looks would leave her with nothing, and that was more than she deserved.
Then there was Morton—he deserved so much worse. His death would obliterate all her remaining angst and anguish, and wouldn’t it be all too easy to slip into his home one night? The sloth bragged often about how his alarm code was still the factory default one because he ‘didn’t have the time to change it.’
All she had to do was Google the factory setting code and then wait for Morton and his wife to come home, taking them both by surprise. Or pick them off one-by-one. Kill her and stash the fresh body somewhere where he would find it.
What would Dennis Morton look like in his fleeting minutes? She’d kill him slow enough to find out. So slow that it would be an all-night affair.
Melanie was so disturbed by the bellicose thoughts that she shook her head in the hope that would get rid of them. In her angriest moments, she wouldn’t consider doing those things. Neither her body nor mind felt like her own right now.
Maybe Nate’s demise provoked these confused feelings? She thought of Trish, and how much she pitied the young widow.
Do I?
A Goth bitch with tweezed eyebrows, black lipstick and pierced nipples. Melanie didn’t know how she knew Trish’s tits were pierced—probably just a ventured guess. All she could think about was paying her a visit and tearing out her innards for the way she failed to appreciate her husband.
Violent thoughts wouldn’t stop pouring into her head.
The path ended at a precipice that opened into a wider chasm. Melanie recognized no choice but to descend the rickety ladder all the way down.
At the bottom, a swell of groundwater collected into a mini-lake on the left and the air felt crisp here. Straight ahead, a makeshift church was built into a natural rock formation. Rows of lit candles lined the ground leading to its wooden doors with hand carved crosses etched in them.
Someone was expecting her.
Blackened skulls and broken bones were obstacles, and she sidestepped the human remains on her way past the construct. There was another passage that, hopefully, would lead out of this place.
She took a few steps but halted when the shadows came alive in the ravine’s mouth.
Him.
He stepped into the candlelight wearing a dark military coat slick with fresh blood. The gray welder’s helmet hung on his face, stained and dented. He lifted his head in acknowledgment—welcoming her after all this time.
I killed you before.
Melanie stepped toward Hoyt and he did the same. She moved another inch and he did too—a perverse mirror image. This was so familiar, not only from twenty-five years ago, but from countless nightmares, too. Whole lives had been lived between these encounters—and here was the man responsible for creating hers.
That thought was all the motivation Melanie needed. She threw the candle aside and lifted the pickaxe with both arms, ready for battle. Hoyt didn’t flinch, and she saw her bloodied, half-crazed reflection in the wink of his helmet.
Kill him and you will be free to kill them all.
Another thought that didn’t belong to her. She winced at the mounting pressure behind her eyes. It lasted a split second—all the time Hoyt needed to register a killing blow. She braced herself for an impact that never came.
He was gone. Again.
Melanie spun in a 360, but only flickering shadows greeted her. Her head felt like it was going to burst. Hot streaks of white cracked across her vision. She massaged her temples but that only exacerbated the pain as she went stumbling and caught her balance against the nearby wooden wall.
I need to lie—
Only she couldn’t even finish that thought. Wasn’t sure what she needed to do, only that she couldn’t continue. Or could she? Did she really come this far to die? No. It was time to escape. To return home and make everyone pay.
Melanie could barely see. Curiosity and desperation brought her along the church’s wall, the palm of her hand rubbed against the wall for direction as her eyesight waned. She reached the building’s corner and hooked around to the front. The doors wobbled open, pushing aside a litter of bones as they parted.
A teenage girl was slumped in the rear pew. Her head was flaccid against the seat’s backing, staring at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes. Her blonde hair was wet and ratted, and her skin was dark blue—the result of the chain wrapped twice around her neck, no doubt.
There was more. Beyond the girl, at the altar across the way, she saw him beneath the hanging cross. Chained at the legs, waist, and shoulders. That ragged, green coat was a shred of fabric wrapped around skeletal remains. His mask was gone and his head was in shattered pieces like broken china.
Cyrus Hoyt.
She could only stare. All this time and he’d been down here, rotting. Twenty-five years spent wondering when—not if—Hoyt would show up on her doorstep. But Melanie trusted her gut. As much as she knew someone was trying to kill her, it couldn’t have been Cyrus Hoyt.
Because this is him.
An explosion of wood shards flew across her face as an axe head crashed through the outside wall. Melanie spun away from it, but the axe was already lifted out of the gash.
Cyrus Hoyt appeared in the doorframe a second later, axe in hand and a welder’s mask covering his head. He paced the nave, increasing his movement as he neared. In the final few feet between them, he broke into a sprint.
Melanie slashed down with the pickaxe, catching him off-guard. The blade tore through his shoulder and he grunted.
Only he wasn’t Cyrus Hoyt. The voice belonged to a female.
This was no time to lay off the aggression. Melanie slammed the blunt edge of her pickaxe against the welder’s helmet, but the other girl was fast. She dodged the attack and countered with an upward thrust of
her own blade.
The axe caught Melanie’s forearm, cleaving a hunk of flesh like chicken off a bone. Both women shrieked and lunged for one another. In the candlelight, Melanie realized how much height she had over her attacker, digging her fingers beneath the welder’s plate and lifting the mask from Trish’s head. She threw it aside and wrapped her hands around the girl’s neck.
Nate’s wife was stronger than she looked, brushing off the attack and coming forward with a fist, landing a punch right on Melanie’s nose. It dropped her at once, leaving her flailing in a sea of skeletal remnants. Trish’s dainty hand closed around Melanie’s neck like a clamp and lifted her back up. The girl’s eyes bulged with rage and strands of drool dangled off her lips.
Both hands closed around Melanie’s throat. Every squeeze weakened her oxygen-starved brain. There wasn’t much fight left in her to begin with, and her life spark was nothing more than a birthday candle now.
Melanie hung limp, the tips of her toes scraping against a discarded skull. Life slipped away. Eyelids were heavy, and closing them promised relief. Maybe it would be easier if she just gave up. To see what the next life had in store.
Her head fell forward, followed by her entire body. Trish let her drop and Melanie was drowning in bones once more. The killer dropped to her knees to finish the job and Melanie cracked one, a femur, off the girl’s mouth, knocking her assailant onto her back.
Melanie could barely stand and Trish was already on sturdier feet, charging again. With nothing left, she threw herself at the murderer like a punch-drunk boxer, taking her back down into the bones.
This time it was Melanie who was up first, and kicking her face. Trish’s nose crunched beneath her sneaker and she disappeared into the remains. Melanie was on her knees fumbling for the axe hidden beneath the broken skeletons.
Trish bounded to her feet and came forward just as Melanie’s hand closed around the weapon. She brought it up and swung it across Trish’s face. The girl collapsed against the nave’s flimsy structure, sending splintering wood running in every direction.
She was lucky though, because Melanie missed—sort of. Only the flat side of the axe had landed, and it was the blunt force that had sent Trish spiraling. Melanie geared for another swing of the axe as the suspended cross high overhead broke free from its chain and crashed into the aisle.
Under The Blade Page 27