Depraved 2

by Bryan Smith

  But out here on Bedford’s rural outskirts life was more like how it had been back in Hopkins Bend. This area was much more sparsely populated and the people who did live here enjoyed a more traditionally country lifestyle. These were the people who worked the land and operated farms. Bradley Cummings had been one of those people and, thanks to the way things were out here, tracking down the rest of the Cummings clan wasn’t difficult.

  However, Sienna did drive five miles in the wrong direction down Old Fort Road before realizing she needed to turn around and go the other way. By then she’d passed a ramshackle roadside shack and one modest-sized farm. The shack didn’t merit a second look, but she slowed down to check the name on the mailbox at the end of the access road leading to the farm. The people who lived here were called “The Walkers”. She was sure Bradley’s kin lived closer, so there was no point going farther in this direction.

  Some five minutes after turning around, she passed the road leading out to Arlene’s creaky old plantation house. She glanced in that direction and caught a partial glimpse of the top of the house. It was around a bend and just visible through some tall trees. As she drove by it, she thought of the bodies and the bloody scene up in that second floor bedroom. It was weird to think of other people passing this spot and having no clue about the carnage so nearby. Then again, she was part of a culture steeped in a tradition of cannibalism and stranger abduction, so maybe it wasn’t so weird, after all.

  She arrived at the access road leading to the property owned by Bradley’s family close to ten minutes later. It was a little farther away than she had imagined and the extra distance meant she had time to get nervous again. She parked at the end of the road to think things over. The property was even smaller than the Walkers’ place. That boded well. A smaller operation meant fewer farmhands. The farmhouse was some hundred yards up the road, but she saw only one other vehicle parked out front, a blue SUV, some recent make and model. If things went well here, she would trade in this stupid old truck for the SUV. At least it would have easily adjustable seats and air-conditioning.

  The lack of multiple vehicles indicated she might be dealing with a small family rather than the large brood typical of these farm people. Still, she doubted Bradley had been an only child. It was more realistic to hope the other children weren’t strapping young men like Bradley, because that could complicate things tremendously.

  Maybe she should rethink this. Sure, Bradley’s people would either send another emissary to Arlene’s place or raise the alarm if the kid didn’t return soon. And, yes, that would make traveling in the truck problematic, but if she left now, she might just have enough time to get to a place where she could ditch the truck and pick up another ride.

  She stared at the distant farmhouse and sighed.

  No. Gotta do this.

  She couldn’t let them alert the police too soon. The gory scene at Arlene’s place needed to go undiscovered a while longer. Sienna reached for the backpack next to her on the bench seat, running her fingers along a frayed edge of the large Confederate battle flag patch stitched across its back. She needed to be ready to act the moment she reached the front door. It was too bad she didn’t have a gun. Firepower would make things so much easier.

  Sienna unzipped the backpack and took out the hammer. The head was still flecked with dried blood and bits of tissue. Seeing this emboldened her, serving as a strong reminder that she was capable of the kind of ruthless violence that would be necessary here. She could inflict a lot of damage with the hammer. The way she had demolished Bradley’s head with it proved that. But he’d had his back turned to her at the beginning of the assault. That would not be the case at the outset of this new adventure. With a head-on encounter, the knife might be better.

  She put the hammer back and took out the knife.

  The decision made, Sienna put the truck in gear and started down the dirt road. She arrived at the farmhouse shortly and parked next to the SUV, a Dodge Durango. She grabbed the knife and put it behind her back as she got out of the truck. Seconds later she was climbing the steps to the wide cement porch. Now that she was here and committed to a course of action, she was more cognizant than ever of the need to strike fast. Bradley’s folks would have heard the approach of the truck. If anyone had peeked out a window and glimpsed a stranger emerging from Bradley’s truck with the boy nowhere in sight, she might already be in trouble.

  She jabbed a finger at the doorbell and tightened her grip on the knife behind her back. The sound of the doorbell chime was followed almost immediately by the clomping of heavy boots on a hardwood floor. Sienna plastered a fake smile on her face as the doorknob turned and the door began to come open, remembering too late how hideously wrong her phony smiles always looked.

  Then the door was all the way open and a dead boy was staring out at Sienna, leaving her flummoxed for a moment that dragged on a touch too long. Her fake smile vanished as she gaped at the resurrected Bradley Cummings. It was incredible. All the damage she had done with her hammer had somehow been undone. She had a queasy moment during which she was sure this was an act of God. If the Almighty had seen fit to intervene in her business, she might be sort of fucked here.

  The boy frowned at her. “Can I help you?”

  Sienna sighed in relief, the obvious answer to this puzzle coming via the boy’s failure to recognize her. This guy wasn’t Bradley resurrected. He was Bradley’s identical twin brother. A closer examination of his facial features revealed some very subtle differences, including marginally fuller lips and eyes slightly closer together. There was no divine hand at work here, just the usual randomness of the universe fucking with her.

  The boy craned his neck and peered out at the truck. “Is that my brother’s truck? Did he drive you here?”

  Before Sienna could reply, a female voice called out from somewhere inside the house: “Who’s at the door, Adrian? Is your brother back?”

  Sienna smirked. “Your name is Adrian? Really?”

  The boy’s frown deepened as he turned his head to shout a reply at the person who had called out to him. “It’s some girl, Ma! She’s got Bradley’s truck.” He looked at Sienna. “What’s wrong with my name?”

  “It’s sort of faggy. You must realize that.”

  Adrian Cummings frowned. “Is something wrong with you?”

  “No. But something’s about to be wrong with you.”

  There was another clomping of feet on the hardwood floor, the mother or someone else coming to investigate. Sienna felt a flicker of regret. There was no more time to fuck with the boy. She did so enjoy messing with simpletons.

  Sienna took the knife from behind her back and rushed at Adrian. His eyes widened as he realized too late the danger he was in. If she had hesitated even one more second, he might have been able to fend her off or slam the door in her face. But that didn’t happen. Adrian gasped in pain as the big blade slammed into his abdomen. He staggered backward and Sienna followed him through the open door into the house, holding on to the blade as warm blood oozed from the wound. Once they were several feet inside the foyer, she ripped the knife from his gut and more blood gushed from the hole she’d created.

  Someone let out a piercing scream.

  When Adrian dropped to his knees, Sienna saw a frumpy older woman framed in an archway. She was fat and had frizzy gray hair. A white apron with the standard “Kiss the cook” slogan emblazoned across the front was tied about her midsection. She was backing through the archway, her shaking hands held up at the sides of her blotchy face.

  Sienna ripped the blade across Adrian’s face, tearing open one of his cheeks and bisecting his upper lip. Another female voice—this one much younger-sounding—began shouting from somewhere nearby as the mother screamed again. So she had at least one more child to deal with, in addition to the fatso mother and as-yet-unseen father.

  She shoved Adrian out of the way and he toppled to the floor with a pleasing, dull-eyed listlessness. The mother screamed again. Then she tur
ned around and ran, her big feet thudding on the hardwood floor. Sienna chased her down a short hallway and into a kitchen. She was faster than the lumbering old cow and caught up to her just as her hand was closing around the handle of a large pot full of boiling water. Before the woman could lift the pot off the stove, Sienna jabbed the knife at her broad back. The blade penetrated an inch or so before scraping bone. The woman wailed in agony and let go of the pot handle. Sienna kicked at the back of one of her legs and she went down hard, hitting the floor with a resounding crash.

  A shrill scream rang out.

  The daughter was on her feet near a door that led outside. She was maybe ten-years-old with golden blonde hair and rosy cheeks. Tears were streaming down her face and she looked paralyzed with terror, failing to move as Sienna charged across the kitchen at her. Most people might have balked at the prospect of harming or frightening a child, but for Sienna the girl represented the ultimate prize. The reanimation ritual was fueled by power derived from sacrifice and the sacrifice of the innocent or the virginal was reputed to generate more power than any other offering. Performed in just the right way—and with enough focused concentration of magical energy—a child sacrifice might generate enough power to bring her father back from the other side and undo the damage time and the elements had wrought on his body.

  The back door banged open and a big man in blue overalls and a flannel shirt came lumbering into the kitchen just as Sienna reached the girl. She grabbed the girl by the back of her pink shirt and dragged her away from the door, turning her around and putting the knife to her throat.

  “Stop right there or she’s dead.”

  The big man scowled. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”

  “Well, let’s see. While you’ve been out tending crops or fucking pigs, or whatever, I’ve been busy killing your whole family. And your daughter’s next if you don’t do as I say.”

  The fat woman moaned and lifted her head off the floor. “Horace, I’m hurt bad. I think the boys are d-dead.”

  The big man glanced at his wife, his eyes widening at the blood leaking from the ragged hole in her back. His ruddy expression hardened when he looked at Sienna again. “What have you done to my boys?”

  Sienna shook her head. “We’re done with the question-and-answer session. I need you to lie face down on the floor, Horace, with your hands clasped behind your head, just like on a cop show. Do it now or I start cutting on your little girl.”

  A diabolical smile began to curve the corners of Horace’s mouth. “This little thing?” He indicated the girl with a dismissive nod. “She’s no child of mine. We snatched her off the streets of Nashville last month. You go on and cut on her. Be my guest.”

  He took a menacing step in Sienna’s direction.

  Sienna gaped at him.

  Oh, shit.

  Bradley’s god-fearing ways had lulled her into thinking the Cummings clan didn’t practice the old family traditions. In retrospect, that was sort of stupid. Her own sister was as devout a Christian as anyone she knew and she was an ardent adherent of the old ways, including that backwoods penchant for cannibalism. What Sienna often forgot was that folks hereabouts didn’t think of outsiders as people. They were human beings only in the technical sense. What they really were to people like the Cummings, Bakers, Maynards, and so many other clans was cattle. They were things, fit only to be eaten, tortured, or enslaved. Being uprooted natives of Hopkins Bend, her family had abandoned the practice for a few years to allay suspicions, which was another big factor in her oversight here.

  Sienna became aware that the girl had pressed herself against her and was trying to make her move backward. She was shrinking away from Horace Cummings. This stunned Sienna into momentary inaction and thus nearly proved her undoing.

  Horace leered at them as he came closer. “I’m about to take that knife away from you, you snot-nosed little bitch, and then I’m gonna stick it in your dirty little baby-maker.”

  “My what?”

  “You know what I mean, bitch. That dirty little hole under your dress.”

  Awareness dawned. “Ah. You mean my pussy.”

  Horace flinched. “I may have to cut that vile tongue out of your mouth before I do anything else. The bible says, ‘If thine eye--”

  “Fuck what the bible says.”

  Sienna shoved the little girl at Horace with all her might, surprising him and knocking him off-stride long enough for her to leap over the blubbering woman on the floor and get to the stove. She heard a screech behind her followed by a thump as Horace tossed the girl away from him with enough force to slam her into the shuttered windows that overlooked the rear of the property. This was followed by the sound of heavy boots stomping across the floor.

  Sienna dropped the knife as she reached the stove. She was betting everything on a gambit that might not work. With Horace bearing down on her, she had only a second or two to make it happen. The water in the pot was still boiling, the burner coils beneath it still glowing a bright red. Sienna’s heart was slamming as she grabbed the pot’s handle with a shaking hand and began to whirl around. A sense of elation roared through her as she realized she was going to get turned around in time.

  Boiling water flew out of the pot as she swung around. Horace realized what she was doing too late. He had begun to lift his arms in an effort to shield his face, but the water got there first. He screamed and reeled backward as it sizzled and cooked his flesh. His instinctive retreat resulted in him tripping over his wife and crashing to the floor with an earth-shaking thud.

  A jab of unexpected pain caused Sienna to cry out before she could celebrate her victory. The plus-sized lady of the house had managed to twist her big torso around far enough to grab the fallen knife and rake it across her ankle. The cut wasn’t deep. It’d torn another hole in the ripped-up stocking and had broken skin. The rage that rose up inside Sienna eclipsed any pain she felt. The woman was struggling to strike at her again. Sienna kicked the knife out of her hand and it went spinning across the floor, stopping as it struck the back door. She then knelt next to the woman and raised the pot high over her head. The woman was on her stomach, but she’d turned her head far enough around to roll her eyes up and see what was about to happen, her eyes overflowing with tears as she opened her mouth to beg for mercy.

  Fuck that.

  Sienna slammed the pot into the back of her head.

  And then she did it again. And several more times after that, until she was indisputably dead. The back of her head had turned soft and spongy. After that, she let go of the pot and got to her feet to survey the situation. The little girl was sitting against the wall beneath the shuttered windows. She was conscious but woozy, her eyes on the verge of glazing over. That was good. The girl could keep until she’d dealt with Horace.

  Horace was on his back and was wailing like a baby. His face was blistered and red. His eyes looked melted. Seeing this made Sienna feel better about things. She’d almost let the situation get away from her, but she was close to having it under control again. She gave Horace a wide berth as she crossed the kitchen to retrieve the knife. He had probably been neutralized as a threat, but Sienna’s experience with the wife had taught her not to take anything for granted.

  Sienna carefully settled herself into position at the man’s side. “It’s funny how things work out sometimes, huh, Horace?”

  He flinched at the sound of her voice. His head jerked first to one side and then to the other before the blind bastard got a fix on her location. She thought he looked scared, but it was really kind of hard to tell with his facial features turned all melty like that.

  She laughed. “You look scared. Where’s all that big talk about knife-rape now? My, but how the tables have turned.”

  She slammed the knife through the crotch of his overalls, sinking several inches of the long blade into his flesh before it met resistance. Horace sat bolt upright as she yanked the blade out and scooted back. He whined and clutched at his crotch, blood staini
ng his shaking fingers.

  Sienna savored his agony a moment longer.

  And then she stabbed him in the throat. More blood jetted from the wound before the dying man fell onto his side. Some of it got on her dress. But that was okay. At this point she no longer cared about her dress getting bloody. The only other people she expected to run into today would be people she needed to kill. The bloodier, the merrier.

  The girl had come around by the time Sienna was standing over her. She looked up at her with hopeful eyes. The poor thing had probably spent much of her time here fantasizing about being rescued. But that flicker of hope drained away when she saw that cold, dead-eyed look of Sienna’s that had been haunting the dreams of her family and acquaintances for years.

  Sienna extended a hand. “Get up. We’re leaving now.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Sienna smiled, but the expression didn’t lessen that deadness in her eyes.

  “We’re going home.”

  19.

  Harley Birdsong drifted in and out of consciousness after the redneck called Floyd dragged him out of the Mustang and slammed his head against the roof of the car three or four times. His hands were tied behind his back and a heavy tarp had been draped over his body. The tarp was thick enough to blot out the remaining sunlight, making it difficult to tell how much time had passed. His nostrils picked up a scent of gasoline and some dumb instinct made him stick out his tongue to taste the dirty metal beneath him. He licked his lips and came to the conclusion that at some point in the not-too-distant past a gas can with a loose cap had gotten tipped over in the back of the truck.

  Another lapse in consciousness followed this brilliant deduction. He understood that terrible things had happened. He even understood that the nature of those things was so dire his traumatized mind was trying to protect him from them, cycling him back down into blissful oblivion before he could examine his fragmented memories too closely. But this was okay with Harley. Another person might be trying hard to get his wits about him in an attempt to get out of the jam, but that would mean facing the reality of what had happened to his friends and he didn’t think he could deal with that. Better by far to just drift away and exist forever in that state of blissful nothingness. It wasn’t a whole lot different from being fried on really excellent weed, the kind that could render you insensible and locked to a couch for hours at a time.