Maybe he’ll walk right by here and not come in.
Yeah, right. This is his place. I should’ve known…
Allison had led her here, then vanished on her. Where was she now?
Megan got her arms into the soggy mountain up to her shoulders, and pulled back a section, unveiling a rotted corpse underneath. She almost yelped like a dog that had been stepped on, but bit down on her bottom lip to keep her mouth closed. The cry came out sounding as a muffled squeal.
The corpse had once been a female. The hair matched Megan’s own in color, but not style. She had hollow sockets for eyes and a gnarled, frozen grin. The body was naked, colored like driftwood, with shriveled breasts that looked like rotten tomatoes.
Megan was stunned. She couldn’t move. She no longer wanted to hide, not with a corpse. But, what choice did she have?
None.
She glanced at the front, expecting to see him barging in, but he wasn’t there. Not yet. Any moment now she would hear the rustle of the tarp being drawn back.
Megan turned around, squirmed her rump against the corpse as if about to sit on its lap, and started piling soiled clothing on top of her. The moldy, rotted stench of the fabric, combined with the corpse’s odor made her gag.
Just as she had pulled a layer over her head, making a sort of peephole through the clothing, the tarp up front was yanked back. A bracket of harsh light shot through the tight expanse. He stood in the doorway, a darkened silhouette against the effulgent sun.
She could tell he knew something wasn’t right. From the entranceway, he looked around, scanning the interior from one side to the other. Megan was submerged in the shadows and disgusting clads piled on top of her. All that showed of her was a narrow slit of her eyes and bridge of her nose.
He doesn’t see me.
Finally, he let the tarp fall, choking off the daylight. He moved through the hut, making his way to the table. He yanked the cover off, letting it flutter to the ground.
The table’s surface was arrayed with countless weapons and tools. Megan also saw some rope, wire, tape, and various other instruments she couldn’t even identify.
Good Lord…
Next to the table was an old rickety chair. It did not appear to be in such shape that it could support a child, let alone a man of his size, but he sat down regardless. Astonishingly, it held him.
He placed the machete on the table, then began rummaging through the mess cluttering the top of it. He found an old red rag—stained black with oil or most likely something else. He tore off a long parcel, tossed the rest back on the table, then proceeded to wrap the wound on his hand. When it was nice and tight, he knotted it and was done. He flexed his fingers a few times.
Megan could hear his fuming breaths even from back here. Seeing him aid his wound brought on a feeling of retribution. She wondered why he’d come here. Sure, bandaging himself was a reason, but she doubted it had been enough to pull him away from the pursuit. For all he knew, she was still out there, running around the woods. Maybe she’d even gotten the authorities and they were combing the woods to find him.
They’re not.
And, he knew it, too. The reason he’d taken this little break from the chase was because he knew that he could. There was no worry that Megan would get away, and that meant, there was no rush to find her.
Defeat channeled through her. She might as well clamber out from under this sodden mound of filth, go over to where he sat, and tap him on the shoulder to announce her surrender.
He grabbed a grinding wheel and his machete. Then he chafed the hefty blade with the grinder in slow thrusts. Sparks popped around him like fireflies as he sharpened the machete even more. With each flash, the room lightened a bit, casting Megan in its feeble gleam.
She scooted down, trying to hide herself more without attracting his attention.
It didn’t work.
He whipped his head around, having caught a flicker of her movement in the corner of his eye. He glared into the darkness a moment. Then he tossed the grinder on the table, and slowly stood up.
Seeing him rise, Megan gently situated her head against the corpse in hopes it would shield him from seeing her. Her nose was pushed in the dry stalk hair. It smelled faintly of dead flowers. She could see mites crawling through the tangled locks, hordes of them. They marched onto her nose, their tiny feet tickling, and threatening to make her sneeze.
She could hear the crunch of the maniac’s boots on the ground as he approached the pile, but she could no longer see him. She wasn’t visible behind the corpse. A few moments that felt endless passed, and the scrape of him shoving the machete back into the sheath at his hip broke the uncomfortable silence.
Then she heard the padding of his steps as he walked away. It sounded like he was heading back to the front. Maybe he was leaving.
Megan dared a peek. She slowly peeped over a withered-gray shoulder.
There was a pause when he reached the tarp. He gave one last look over his shoulder, then exited.
The room was still for several beats.
Eventually, Megan maneuvered the corpse down to the ground so gingerly it made no sound. She slowly began to stand as if trying to find her footing on ice. Her eyes stayed fixed on the front. Knee-deep in the laundry, she slowly lifted a leg out and placed it on the ground outside the mess.
Behind her the tarp imploded. Like a portal opening to a bedazzling dimension, light suddenly engulfed her. Megan screamed as two beefy arms hugged around her and pulled her—kicking and screaming—through the back.
Megan writhed and fought to no gain. Shrieked with all her throat could produce, and he didn’t let go. Once she was on the outside, the hold on her went away. She fell. A cloud of dust wafted out from under her when she landed hard on her side.
She gasped for breath between hacking coughs. He towered over her, savoring this. She watched him through the tangled tresses of her hair. He seemed to relish her suffering. She would swear she saw glee in his beady black eyes.
He stepped over her legs, grabbed each foot by the ankle, and dragged. She flipped onto her stomach, pawing at the ground, pulling out clumps of grass with clotted dirt bottoms as she tried to keep hold of something. All she really could do was allow herself to be lugged off, but she continued to fight as if she actually had a chance at escape.
There was no hope, and she was aware of this, but she slammed her fists down on the ground just the same.
14
Growing irritated, Amanda steered the Jeep to the berm of what she guessed accounted as a road. The road had gradually tapered until becoming a narrow horse path, a penciled line of gravel and dirt through tall money-green grass.
Engine idling, she crossed her arms on the steering wheel, planting her head into the fold. And, groaned.
“Amanda, you there?”
Paul. His voice, crackly and thin, resonated from the radio. It was good hearing him, always, but right now she was tired of getting his updates. Each conversation had ended with him more disappointed than the last. She didn’t like it when he was upset with her, and couldn’t figure out why it bothered her so bad when he was. No other guy ever made her worry like that.
Maybe he is the one…
“Shit,” she muttered. She’d always promised herself there would never be a one.
And, when he found out she was even deeper into the mountain, he would probably shit his pants.
Without raising her head up, she groped for the receiver, found it, then pulled it to her and held the switch down. She had to slip it under the steering wheel to get it to her mouth. “Yeah?”
“Hey…”
“Hey back.”
“Are you okay?”
“Dandy, you?”
“Been better. Where are you? Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, I have to know whether I wanna hear it or not.”
“I’m not exactly sure, somewhere past Wiseman’s Ridge...”
“Jesus H. Christ, Amanda. You’re going to get yourself lost.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Listen Amanda, there are Marshals here, and they want you back at the tower right away. Apparently there is more going on than even we know. News about the murders traveled fast, and apparently the FBI is getting involved.”
“What the hell?”
“I’m as confused as you are, but they demanded that you get back here so you can talk to the agent.” There was some indistinct chatter in the background, then Paul added, “And they have questions of their own.”
Now she was mad. It was hearing them spoon-feeding Paul every word he was saying to her. She pictured two overweight men packed into their cowboy threads, smelling like old cigarette smoke with brushes of beards that they never shaved, yet never seemed to grow more than a whisker.
She might have actually turned the Jeep around and driven the nearly three hour ride back to the tower if it weren’t for them telling Paul to add that little incentive at the end.
“Paul?” she said.
“Yeah…” There was a hint of worry in his voice. He must know what she planned to say next.
“Tell those marshals to go fuck themselves, and when that FBI agent gets there, tell him I said to watch them and join in if he wants to.”
Paul sighed through the speaker so heavily it sounded like he was somewhere with massively gusting winds. There was some rustling and clicking sounds.
When a voice came back on, it did not belong to Paul. She recognized the kind of tone it had right away. This was someone she should not be trying to piss off. He was one of those legitimate badasses, the kind that had probably seen a lifetime of mayhem and had caused just as much himself. And, all he said was, “Amanda Carpenter?”
“Yes,” she said back in the same mysterious way.
“I’m Federal Marshal Ron Lamberson. And I am not requesting for you to come back to the tower, I am ordering you to, and if you do not oblige, then not only will you lose your job, but you will be escorted off this mountain in shackles. Are we understanding each other?”
“Crystal clear. But, I think there was some confusion…”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Because I told you to go fuck yourself and you’re on the horn still talking to me.” She heard Paul groan in the background. “Now, I don’t know what the hell I could possibly do for you back there when I’m out here trying to get answers. Those bodies were fresh enough that the person or persons responsible couldn’t have gotten too far away.”
“We need to have a moment where we can sit and I can explain some things you might want to know…”
“Tell me now, asshole!”
“All I will say is those areas you’re in are the Bermuda Triangle of the mountains. People go in and never come out.”
“I already knew that.”
“I don’t think you understand the severity Ms. Carpenter, so if you would, please come back to the tower before it’s too late.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I believe you heard my threats and that was not one of them. So, will you come back willingly?”
Amanda considered it only for a moment. “Nah. I politely decline your invite.”
“Ms. Carpenter.” Now there was patent frustration in his voice. “If you—”
“If this girl is still alive, then all that me trekking back to the tower is going to do is provide more time for her to be raped, killed, or both. If I can prevent that from happening…then I’m going to.”
“Ms—”
“I’m done talking to you. And, I’m killing radio contact.” She took a deep breath. She knew this would cause him some problems back in the tower, but she felt it had to be said as well. “Paul, I know you can hear me. I do need you. I love you. And, hopefully when this is over, you’ll still want to be with me.”
She tossed the receiver. It smacked the instrument panel, then dropped to the floor, stretching the coiled cord attaching it. As the fuzzy sounds of frantic movement played from the tiny speaker, she gripped the tiny knob on the radio between her forefinger and thumb. Then she shut it off, killing those in the tower’s agitated retorts.
A heavy blanket of silence fell over the Jeep. She felt awful for how she’d acted, but at the same time, greatly relieved. She wasn’t letting them pull her away from this. And why had they tried? She was already so far into the search, why make her come back now.
Easy. They knew something she didn’t. And, they wanted her away from whatever was going on out here.
What are they trying to hide?
And she felt bad because of what she’d said to Paul at the end. She knew he would catch some serious flack for it, but she also thought he was probably glad to have heard it. After the initial shock and the ribbing ended, George would forgive him for shitting where he ate, but she knew she was pretty much done being a ranger. Whenever she did decide to head back to the tower, it would be to collect her pink slip, clean out her locker, and turn in the gun and Jeep.
She’d miss the Jeep. She rubbed her fingers along the soft, rubbery skin of the steering wheel, and smiled. “I’ll miss you most of all, scarecrow.” Then she turned off the engine, taking away what little remained of the unnatural noise. All she heard now was the whisper of the woods, a subtle, almost secretive breathing that you only perceived in deep isolation.
She wanted to sit here and enjoy it longer, but she couldn’t. Amanda removed the keys from the ignition, and as she climbed out, she slid them into the pocket of her tight-fitting khakis. Removing the ranger’s shirt, she tied it around her waist by the sleeves. Then she checked that she had her gun, and two spare clips. She hoped she wouldn’t need any more bullets because this was all she had.
Amanda walked around to the back, opened the gate, and grabbed her backpack. It was heavy on her shoulders, trying to pull her back. She shrugged, adjusting the straps so they weren’t so tight. That made it better.
She shut the gate, then walked around to the driver’s door, and pushed down the auto-lock button. Four locks clicked in synchronicity.
Amanda stepped onto the road, throwing the door shut in stride. She examined the woods to the left of the car. The camping area was back near Cunningham. If the missing woman was moving west, away from the turnoff, then she should be heading this direction.
This has to be the right way. I would have seen her anywhere else.
Not in the woods.
No, not there. But, if I enter right here, and circle back around. I just might cut them off. Surely I’m ahead of them. They’re obviously moving on foot. I might just run right into them.
That seemed very likely, and her mind was made up. She scanned the circumambient forest one more time, then marched on.
15
A loud clangor resounded. Megan shrieked in crucial agony as the nail was driven inward through her wrist. A thin line of blood streamed down her arm. Half an inch of the rounded head protruded from her skin.
Another nail was pressed to her wrist beside the preceding one.
Then the psychopath revved back the hammer and drove it home with a wet, splintering plunge.
Megan screamed again, tears spewing from her eyes. She had hoped by now she couldn’t feel any more pain, but it seemed like it had increased with each blow of the hammer.
Her left hand, already pinned to the tree above her head, was bruised and bleeding warm sticky torrents down her arm. With both hands tacked there, her elbows stuck out on each side, giving her a human arrow shape.
He gave her arms a mighty tug. They were secure. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Fighting off hyperventilation, she watched him swagger over to a campfire site. Rocks circled a stash of blackened branches of a previous fire. A flat grate had been mounted above the sticks, and sitting on top of it was an old cast-iron frying pan.
The man stepped around the fire pit, and skulked away from Megan.
When she saw where he was heading a fresh scream rose
in her throat. Blinking away tears, she could see hammered to the other tree, in an identical pose, was a corpse. Fully clothed in hiking attire, she looked to have been here for quite some time. Not entirely decomposed, there was plenty of evidence she had once been a lovely girl. Her skin was as gray as cigarette ash, and her eyes had recessed into her skull. Wrinkled eye lids showed the dull whites of her eyes. They looked to have fossilized into Ping-Pong balls. Lips had peeled back, exposing two rows of perfect teeth on a slack jaw stuck in a silent scream. She’d had a large pair of breasts that now looked like rotten melons.
The psychopath ripping a piece off the dead girl’s shirt snapped Megan out of the trance she was being pulled into. She shook her head to clear the mind fog, then attempted to move her arms. She squealed at the pain blasting down her arms and into her chest. It made her stomach feel like she’d been punched there. Her head snapped to the left, gazing past her blood-deluged arms.
And she saw the exhibit.
Her cries stopped flat. The girl was something she could understand missing when she was dragged into this section of the woods. She’d been fighting with her best efforts to free herself when he’d pinned her to the tree. She’d kept resisting his attacks while ramming nails the length of unsharpened pencils through her wrists with a rusted claw hammer.
But…this other…thing…
How did I not see that?
Displayed like macabre lawn ornaments was a stock of corpses, all shapes, sizes, and sexes. In myriad positions, some were hammered and bound around a post, merged into a collage piece of grotesque art. Others had been planted with stakes lodged up their asses and the tops pushing out through their stretched-open mouths.
Megan realized right before it happened that she was losing all control of herself. She heard horrible, glass-shattering shrills reverberating all around her. When she realized they were coming from her, she cried even harder.
Acting as if she weren’t there at all, he crouched at the stick pile, and stuffed the torn fabric between the twigs. He stuffed a hand into a pocket and tugged out a small box. Shaking it, the box made scraping noises. Matches. He took one out, striking it with the tip of his thumb. A tiny flame popped up, then he lowered the match down to the cloth, igniting it. The flames rose swiftly, licking the grate and slowly heating the iron pan on top.
Last One Alive Page 6