The Thing in the Woods

by Matthew W. Quinn

  “Yep.” She reached out and touched the spray of freckles under his right eye with a warm finger. “Always wanted to. I think there’s a least twenty right here. I wonder how many are on the other side?”

  “I haven’t done that since I was five. I think I lost count around one hundred.” He swallowed. “I’ve got a bunch on my shoulders too.” Maybe she’d get the chance to count those too. Now that would be fun. But not now.

  The truck sped up. James was torn. The faster they got to the place of sacrifice, the better the odds Dad was still alive. But the faster they got there, the sooner they’d confront the monstrosity again. The image of the thing in the woods tearing away the sheltering tarp above them filled his mind. It’d look over them, its azure eyes spewing their morbid light. Its tentacles would fall like lightning, skewering them like spitted hot dogs at a cookout. It would lift them up in the air, blood dripping down on the truck like rain, before tossing them both into its huge mouth. Alive into its huge mouth.

  His hands flashed to the tarp covering them. If the thing was coming, he wanted to see it rather than have it creep up on him.

  “James!” Amber hissed. “What are you doing?”

  The blue tarp spilled away as James sat up. He squinted against the light even brighter than the sliver that illuminated them a few minutes ago. But he could still see.

  The fence surrounding the tree farm lay well behind, a thin gray streak through trees lined up as neatly as rows of corn. The underbrush had been cleared away, leaving long avenues paved with pine straw. The sun smiled through gaps in the canopy. It was warm, warmer than it had been when he’d last entered the domain of the thing in the woods.

  The image of Bill rising in the air, crucified on the monster’s limbs rose from James’ memories like an evil submarine. Sweat suddenly beaded on his forehead. His stomach surged into his mouth. He swallowed down the stinging bile, but his fear didn’t go with it. They were going right into its lair, to the place the cultists had been feeding it living men for God knows how many hundreds of years. He was going to face it again. He suddenly had to piss.

  No. Not this time.

  Amber sat up beside him. She looked around. “Oh thank God.” She looked over at him, anger clear on her face. “That could’ve been real bad if somebody saw us.”

  She had a point there.

  “You ever been in here?” He pointed to the rows of trees. “I’ve never been to a tree farm before.” He swallowed. “It actually looks kind of nice.”

  Amber shook her head. “There’s plenty of real woods around here. East of Griffin there’s High Falls State Park. My family and I went camping there last year. There’s a great big lake. Beautiful waterfalls.”

  Despite the situation, James grew curious. “I’ve never been out there. I’ve been to Piedmont Park in Atlanta though. Freedom Park too.” He swallowed. The two of them were about to go into the jaws of hell. Why was he going to ask now? This was not even a remotely appropriate time.

  On the other hand, it wasn’t like he really had anything to lose.

  “How about this? Once we’re done here”—he left the alternative unsaid—“We go to each other’s favorite park? I show you Piedmont Park, you show me High Falls.”

  Amber grinned. “Why James Daly, are you asking me out?”

  Now it was his turn to blush. “Sure.”

  Amber laughed. “I’d love to.”

  James felt strangely relieved. However, the bright spot in the darkness was soon snuffed out when the truck jolted. His head whipped around. Had the thing come out of the water? He’d seen video of octopuses crawling onto land on YouTube. He could just imagine the freight train of glistening black flesh and too many eyes surging through the trees, its vast mouth opening wide to swallow him and Amber alive.

  But nothing was coming. Sam must’ve hit a bump in the road. James reddened. Son of a bitch. At this rate, he’d stroke out before he ever saw a cultist, let alone the monster. And he’d look like a coward in front of Amber.

  As they rolled deeper into the tree farm, things changed. The orderly rows gave way to the wild. Underbrush clawed at the flanks of the trees, their tendrils digging into the wooden flesh between the scaly bark. The canopy closed overhead. The temperature dropped. The ground grew wet.

  James remembered the story of the Union soldiers chasing the Edington Home Guard—the cult by another name—into the “wet wood.” There most of the men from Missouri had died, with the survivors not living much longer.

  He looked down at the box at his feet. The Claymores made the cannons those soldiers probably didn’t have look like Super Soakers. And unlike those poor men, the three riding into the wooded hell knew what they faced.

  “Your gun loaded?” Whatever happened to him, he wanted Amber to be able to protect herself.

  She nodded. “I’ve hunted before. Got a couple turkeys down by the reservoir.”

  “Good.” If she could kill animals, maybe she could kill people.

  Something glinted to James’ left, through a gap in the wild trees. His head snapped to the side. It was a pond, opening like an enormous dark eye out of the wet ground. A pond just like the one the thing erupted from to attack Bill. He suddenly had to piss again. His grip on Amber’s hand tightened.

  The truck turned sharply around a bend, rolling Amber halfway on top of him. Under different circumstances he’d have liked that, but not now. “You all right?” Amber nodded. She didn’t immediately pull away. That was cool. Part of him wanted to slip an arm around her and pull her closer. He might not get another chance.

  Oh, what the hell.

  Amber’s eyes widened, but it was amusement and not distress that crossed her face. “Isn’t this a little soon?”

  His hand crept up her spine. “Not really.”

  She laughed and leaned in, her brow touching his. “I like that answer.”

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t time for much more. Another turn and the trees pulled away from the road. James pulled himself up as much as he could without disrupting Amber to look over the rim of the truck bed. Ahead lay a bunch of cars, one of which had been in front of James’ house earlier. A couple bore the blue and white of the Sheriff’s Office. James’ heart sank. Assuming two or three per car, there could be close to forty cultists present. The three of them couldn’t possibly take them all on.

  Then he saw what lay on the other side of the parking lot.

  Beyond the cars, flanking a dirt path disappearing into the trees, stood two enormous carvings. They rose up twenty feet each and reminded James of Indian totem poles he’d seen on a family trip to the Field Museum in Chicago. They towered overhead like the poles in the Hall of Native North Americans, but there the resemblance ended. These weren’t red cedar but some darker wood, as black as obsidian and just as shiny. Carved tentacles rippled up the pole until about two feet from the top. There, crowned with too many azure eyes, were hideous elongated heads with teeth, bright white and razor-sharp.

  Fear surged through James. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at attention. His scalp tingled. He pointed. “You see that?”

  Amber nodded. Her blue eyes locked on the two totem poles. Her grip on James’ hand tightened. It was starting to hurt. She pressed harder against him. That at least wasn’t so bad.

  The truck pulled to a stop well off to the side, far from the other cars. Harder to box in. Good call. The engine cut off. A moment later, the door clanged open. Amber pulled away from James, but not before Sam came around. He looked at Amber, then at James. A ghost of a smile crossed his face before he pointed at the totem poles.

  “Those were there when the first white men came.” James frowned. There was an unsettling amount of awe in Sam’s voice. “These’re older than the Creeks. Maybe even older than the mound-builders. I’m not even sure men made them.”

  Now that was a little hard to swallow. Some redneck cult offering people they didn’t like as human sacrifices, sure. Something that actually accepted these sacrific
es, well, that was something he’d seen with his own eyes. But Marvin the Martian? He hoped there wasn’t a grain of truth to that. He didn’t want to get anal-probed on top of everything else.

  “All right,” Sam ordered. “Everybody out.”

  Both gripping their shotguns, James and Amber scrambled over the side of the truck bed. The gravel crunched loudly beneath their shoes. James’ head snapped toward the path. Though the sound had thundered in his ears, nobody came to investigate. Good.

  “Stay here,” Sam ordered Amber before she could step away from the truck. He tossed her the keys. “Use the shotgun to protect yourself, but don’t stir up trouble. If you have to, drive away and leave us.”

  Amber shook her head. “No. No, I won’t.” Tears briefly glinted in her eyes before she blinked them away.

  Sam sighed. “You can’t avenge your uncle if you’re dead.”

  Amber scowled but retreated to the cab of the truck. Sam turned to James. “All right.” The old soldier’s voice was low now, as though he was afraid he’d be overheard. “I’m going to plant the Claymore. You’d better watch me. You might need to do it your own self.”

  James’ hands trembled around the shotgun. He swallowed. Sam went and unhooked the back gate. He lowered it slowly rather than letting it fall. A brief relief welled up inside James. The less noise, the better. He watched as Sam retrieved the lethal trio of mines, the AR-15, and a megaphone, of all things. He hadn’t noticed that in the truck bed. His gaze drifted back toward Amber. Of course, he’d been a bit preoccupied…

  Then Sam turned to James and Amber. “Quiet now. This is life or death.”

  The lump in James’ throat was so huge it must look like a tumor. James slowly nodded. Sam set off toward the two totem poles. His legs made of lead, James followed.

  As they drew near the towering icons, James’ hands trembled. They were going into the lair of something terrible and unholy. Could those mines kill it? Were they walking to their deaths?

  He looked up at the totem poles. The azure eyes watched him like a hawk regarding a mouse. He suddenly wanted to run. Run back to the truck, toss Amber in with him, and get the hell out. He didn’t want to follow Sam into hell.

  He swallowed. No way. The bastards kidnapped Dad. They intended to kill him in one of the most hideous ways imaginable. His grip tightened on his shotgun. He would save him or die trying.

  Sam passed beneath the totem poles. James quickened his step ever so slightly. Every scrape of his foot against the gravel roared in his ears. The cultists had to hear them coming.

  James kept his eyes locked on Sam and the trail ahead. The path bent ahead, twisting around a large bush whose leaves were fringed with brown rot. In the distance, voices murmured. The cult was here, all gathered to watch Dad offered to a monstrosity.

  James grit his teeth. Over their dead bodies. Over his dead body if necessary, but over their dead bodies first.

  The murmuring grew louder as they approached the bush and the scattering of stunted plants surrounding it. Beyond it dozens of people, mostly men but a few women, gathered in ranks almost like a military parade. Several wore the brown of the Sheriff’s Office. Those men had to be armed. Even if they weren’t, there were too many for him and Sam to handle even with their guns. James’ gaze drifted over to the bush and its companions. The vegetation might hide them from the cultists. Emphasis on might.

  Sam brought a finger to his thin lips. He walked up to the bush and set one of the Claymores on the ground, embedding its spiky legs into the wet earth.

  James’ eyes bulged. “Wait,” he whispered. “You set that thing off, and Dad’s out there, you might kill him!”

  Sam shook his head. “If they’ve got him on the table, he’s too far away.” He paused. “If we’re late, he’s almost certainly there. Phil will want to make a big entrance.”

  James swallowed. The man had fought in an actual war. Surely he knew what he was talking about. But if he was wrong, Dad might die.

  Sam knelt by the curving mine and adjusted it slightly. Aiming it. James filed that bit away for later. He didn’t know how well these things could be aimed. He did his best to divide his attention between the cultists and Sam. He’d need to know how these things worked, just in case, but he also wanted to be the first to know if the cultists spotted them.

  Sam plugged the long nose of one end of the cord into the mine and crept backward across the muddy, leafy ground. James moved with him, looking back and forth between Sam and the horde of cultists gathering nearby. The lump in his throat returned. If someone heard them rustling around and the mine wasn’t ready, they were dog meat.

  Sam backed up about sixty feet. He plugged the tail end of the cable into a small box-like device. James narrowed his eyes. That must be the detonator.

  “Hold this,” Sam ordered. “Don’t you dare squeeze it until I tell you.” He paused. “But when the time comes, you might need to squeeze it up to three times. Build up a charge to blow it.” He slung the AR-15 strap over his shoulder and picked the bullhorn off the ground.

  James’ jaw dropped. Was he planning on warning them? Best set off the mine and be done with it!

  Before he could stop him, Sam brought the megaphone to his lips.

  Phillip stood in the shadows beneath the trees, the assembled congregants barely visible through the tangled underbrush. The earth was wet beneath his booted feet, wet and warm. It crawled with the creatures He permitted in His holy dwelling, alive.

  As was the man spread-eagled and buck naked on the picnic table in the shadow of the bell that would call Him to feed. Phillip’s lip curled in contempt. From the report of those who’d taken him, he hadn’t put up much of a fight at all. And his son, the real target, had been found cowering in a closet. Found by Sam no less.

  A smile kinked his lips. He’d need to call off Reed. The Army puke had done good after all. There’d been some long-haired motorcycle fiend he’d had in his company he’d have sworn would have buggered off to some boom-boom house in Saigon at first chance, but the man had earned a Bronze Star at Con Thien in ‘68. Sam had well and truly exceeded his expectations, just like that hippie had.

  He was glad hadn’t condemned Sam to the same traitor’s death he’d helped carry out decades before. The younger man had shown his worth.

  Phillip looked at his watch. Where was Sam? He’d have liked to sacrifice them together, the father and the son. It’d be fitting. Two carpetbaggers, one sacrifice. He would be pleased and sated for a time. And the stranger in black wouldn’t be able to learn anything he shouldn’t from the boy.

  He shook his head. The lord of the wet wood would linger after eating the father. The boy would feed Him soon enough. Phillip chuckled at the thought. The boy had thought he’d escaped that afternoon. He hadn’t reckoned that He had men and women serving as His hands and feet outside the woods.

  Phillip stepped to the edge of the pond and drew his knife. A quick slice and the red blood dripped bright from his hand into the dark waters. He would smell the blood. He would come. The high priest smiled.

  A voice sounded in the distance, interrupting his joy. An amplified, electronic voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded familiar even though it was coming from a megaphone. He stepped forward, boots popping free from the dark mud. They’d never used instruments to praise Him, let alone electronic ones.

  “All right, everybody.” James’ head snapped in the direction of the cultists. The evil throng turned their way, surprise written on their many faces. “You all are fixing to commit another murder, and I’m not going to have it.”

  “Brother Sam, what the hell are you doing?” someone called out. “And who’s that with you?”

  “The Edington cops are on their way,” Sam continued. “But y’all have enough time to get the hell out of here if you stop what you’re doing right now!”

  James nearly snapped his fingers. Sam had been a cult member for years. Many of these people were his friends. Of course he wasn
’t going to blow them all to hell and gone!

  He looked down to the detonator in his hands. Of course, he could set it off himself. Kill them before they drew guns of their own or straight-up charged. Sam’s kindness might get them both killed. His hand tightened on the detonator. Best not take any chances.

  He shook his head. Dad was probably out there somewhere. He didn’t want to destroy the cult if he killed Dad too. He loosened his grip on the detonator. He wouldn’t set the mine off without Sam’s permission.

  But he would keep an eye on the cultists. Sam might be so busy talking he might not notice if they tried something.

  “The man on the table belongs to Him now!” someone shouted back. “The time for mercy has passed!” The voice softened. “Brother Sam, you know that.”

  So Dad was on the table. Thank God. If the table was far enough away, that shouldn’t be a problem. His hand tightened on the detonator once again.

  “I have a bomb on the edge of the clearing,” Sam continued. Muttering erupted amidst the crowd. “My friend here has the trigger. Y’all have to the count of ten to clear out. Go out through the woods, come around to your cars, and y’all get gone!”

  That got James’ attention. Sam didn’t seem to have thought that one through. Unless Amber jumped back in the car immediately, they’d see her. If they had any brains, they’d try to take her hostage to force him and Sam to stand down. Or maybe they’d just kill her out of spite. That seemed like the kind of thing they’d do.

  James watched the crowd. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked down at the detonator in his hand. If they decided to jump ship, he was going to make sure they didn’t pull anything once they got to their cars. Sam could take care of Dad. A couple looked to be edging toward the trees lining the far side of the clearing. Good. Maybe more would follow. Hope rose in his chest, pushing away his fear for Amber. Maybe they wouldn’t need to use the mines. Maybe this could all be ended peacefully.

  Then James spotted a big man edging through the crowd. The man’s hand was inside his jacket. His heart sank. That had to be a gun under there.