Godland

by Stuart R. West

  “It’s the most important chore I’ll ever have you do, boy.” Edwin’s grin spread across his sun-cracked face. “So don’t screw it up.”

  Joshua’s loathsome smile grew, his tongue bobbing. He put his hands together with child-like glee. Then he howled toward the ceiling.

  “Good boy!”

  It didn’t take long for Joshua to get ready.

  Edwin drove the old Ford truck down the highway, maintaining the speed limit religiously. With its dark blue paint job mottled by large rust spots, Edwin thought the truck resembled one of those hippy vans you used to see in the seventies. But the truck had been reliable for twenty years. More than he could say for his family.

  The truck rode out a sudden dip in the highway, the eroding shock absorbers bouncing Edwin and Joshua up and down. Joshua placed his hands merrily together as if enjoying a carnival thrill-ride.

  Joshua’d never been off the farm except for his brief school trial in Karlin. Edwin knew bringing Joshua to Kansas City might be risky. He’d stick out like a sore thumb. And he could, at times, be as unpredictable as a rogue elephant. As long as Joshua stayed out of sight, though, the plan would work. He needed the boy’s strength and talents to achieve his goals.

  Edwin glanced at the carefully positioned bottle, swathed and protected by rags, nestled on the truck’s floorboards. The bottle of chloroform was old, older than the hills, but it hadn’t been opened for well on twenty years. Sealed tightly and stored in the cellar alongside Gretchen’s preserves, jams, and pickles, it was something Gretchen had used for medicinal purposes. Seeing as how Gretchen’s fixins still tasted fine, he had no doubt about the chloroform’s potency.

  Edwin pulled the truck off an exit about thirty miles from Kansas City. Turning onto a quiet gravel road, he scoured the area. He drove into a muddy thatch, barren of grass and hidden by trees.

  “Stay here, boy,” he ordered. “I’ve got to stretch my legs.”

  He stepped out of the truck. Joshua, taking in every new sight and sound, flattened both palms against the window.

  Edwin grabbed a handful of mud and slathered it over his license plate. He repeated this until the plate was illegible. He slopped more mud on the back bumper and the tire-flaps, creating a semblance of having driven through dirty fields.

  After the mud dried, Edwin drove to the local gas station by the highway exit. The wind whipped at Edwin mercilessly, nearly taking his cap with it. At an outdoor payphone, he carefully dialed the number written on the crumpled piece of paper.

  “It’s time,” he said into the phone. “You wanted two day’s warning; here it is. You’d best leave now.”

  Edwin licked his dried lips.

  Yes, indeedy. Judgment Day is nigh upon us.

  Shannon and Lindsay walked through the school parking lot. Today, school had challenged Shannon for more reasons than one. She couldn’t focus. Mrs. Albright, her algebra teacher, called upon her to answer an equation. She didn’t respond immediately, her head in the clouds. To the amusement of the classroom, Mrs. Albright chastised Shannon about daydreaming. Of course, Shannon felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but it didn’t matter, as Gavin turned around and smiled sweetly. The possibilities of where things might go with Gavin seemed endless.

  “You didn’t really dance at Wild Bill’s,” exclaimed Lindsay.

  “We did!”

  “And you…you…were the one who kissed him first?”

  “I was.”

  “Wow. I thought I’d have to lead you through this to the bitter end,” said Lindsay. “But my little girl is growing up and showing her inner whorishness.” Shannon giggled. They strolled toward Lindsay’s yellow Firebird, a gift from her parents when she turned sixteen. Shannon had arranged for Lindsay to give her a ride home today, primarily because it would give them the opportunity to talk privately about the date. “So, tell me more. What happened next?”

  “Well, we just sort of drove around after that. I wanted to get out of Wild Bill’s as fast as possible.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t do him on one of the tables!”

  “Lindsay!” Even though Lindsay’s off-color comment tickled her, Shannon feigned shock.

  “So, you drove around. Is that all that happened? C’mon, girl.”

  “We just talked. He’s actually a…pretty deep guy.”

  “Yeah, deep brown eyes.”

  “No, I mean, he’s smart, funny, sweet, and interesting. He’s intoxicating.”

  “Oh, God. ‘Intoxicating.’ Gag.”

  “Okay, maybe that’s a little much.” Shannon looked down at her feet, old feelings of insecurity resurfacing. “But, he’s everything I could want in a guy.”

  “Did he kiss you good night?”

  “Hellz yeah!” Shannon recalled how he’d opened her car door, taken her hand, and led her to the front door. Romantically, yet more than a little awkwardly, he took his time positioning himself in front of her. Then he leaned down and kissed her. She wanted to remain within his arms forever. But the porch light had snapped on. Her mother stood vigilant behind the curtains. Shannon gently broke their embrace, staring into his eyes.

  “Okay, when’s the next date?” asked Lindsay.

  “Well, we didn’t set one.” Although she would never admit it to Lindsay, Gavin’s noncommittal follow-up had worried her. She considered the possibility Gavin might be stringing her along. No, no more doom and gloom. Finally, she had turned the corner, no peeking back around it. Ever again.

  “Uh-oh,” said Lindsay.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Here comes lover-boy.”

  “Hey,” said Gavin.

  Shannon whirled on her flats, nearly releasing a small shriek. “Oh God, you scared me!”

  Gavin grinned. “Probably not the response I was after.”

  “No, I mean, you don’t scare me all the time, just…” Shannon trailed off.

  “It’s okay,” said Gavin. “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to get together to study tonight for the test tomorrow?”

  “Gavin,” said Lindsay, “is this your idea of another cheap date?”

  “Lindsay!” To Shannon’s relief, Gavin appeared amused, not insulted.

  “Well, I can promise another diet limeade afterward.” His smile told Shannon he, too, was looking forward to continuing where they’d left off.

  “Forget it,” said Shannon, giggling. “I don’t think I can ever go there again.”

  “Okay, okay, we’ll go somewhere else.”

  “Deal. Seven?”

  “That, I can do.”

  “Cool.” Shannon skipped toward Lindsay’s passenger door. On impulse, Shannon stopped and skittered back to Gavin. She placed a fast peck on his lips. Running back to the car, she didn’t allow time for embarrassment to set in.

  “Woot,” called out Lindsay.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” said Gavin, clearly caught off guard.

  Shannon looked back briefly at Gavin, wagging her fingers daintily at him. Or as daintily as she could muster. My God, thought Shannon, is he blushing?

  Gavin watched Lindsay’s car leave the lot. He noticed an old, rusty blue Ford pickup following closely behind them. He hadn’t seen the truck before, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Probably just a “project” given to one of the gear-heads for auto mechanics class.

  Still, as he watched the girls pull out onto Johnson Drive, he couldn’t help but see how the truck sped up and changed lanes when they did. And what was up with all the mud caked onto the back of the truck? It wasn’t like there were an awful lot of places to go four-wheeling in Barton, Kansas.

  Gavin’s smile vanished.

  Peter Brookes stared into the dead eyes of the whitetail deer head mounted in his study.

  You didn’t really put up much of a fight, did you?

  Peter shot and killed the deer last fall on an arranged and guided hunt through a 250-acre privately owned woodland, about an hour and a half from New York. One of the most disap
pointing and ultimately frustrating events he’d ever experienced. Everything had been set up for him to succeed. Fully armed, instructed, and guided—the deer may as well have been gift wrapped and tied to a tree. No spontaneity, no room for hunting and tracking skills, no challenge, and definitely no joy. A strange word to use regarding the death of a deer, joy. But it seemed appropriate. Or should’ve been. When he pulled the trigger on the deer, Peter saw the life go out of the animal and felt a little bit of life leave him as well.

  Peter stood, admiring his gun collection. He unlocked the glass cabinet and pulled out his prized possession. A Holland and Holland Royal Grade .700 NE double rifle that he’d had engraved and set with diamonds. As he stroked it, he knew what it felt like to hold a million dollars in his hand. Damn near what he paid for it, too. He hadn’t had the opportunity to use the gun yet, but that was about to change.

  A timid knock sounded at the study door. Peter carefully placed his gun back into the cabinet and locked it. “Come in,” he called.

  The door swung open. Michael ran into the room, clad in flannel pajamas. “I can’t sleep, Daddy. Can you tell me a story?”

  Peter slowly exhaled, the grind already setting in. “Can’t Mommy tell you a story?”

  “She told me to have you do it.” Peter felt a small tinge of loathing when his son wiped his nose on his pajama sleeve.

  “Did she now?” Peter resignedly sat down in the large leather chair and patted his knee. “Fine. Let’s do this then.”

  Michael raced across the room and hopped into Peter’s lap. Peter drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, mentally composing his tale.

  “Once upon a time, there was a man who wanted to be king,” began Peter. Michael snuggled in closer to his father. “But he wasn’t always a king. He came from a land far, far away, where his parents were monsters who mistreated him every day.”

  “What’d they do, Daddy?”

  “They beat him and made him sleep in ashes and on cold bricks.” Peter stared at his son to make sure he understood. “One day the man woke up and decided to kill his monstrous parents. He set fire to the home and burned his parents alive. Then, the man decided to go to the kingdom of ‘Richland’, where he would take over as king.”

  “Do they vote for the king?”

  “Not in Richland. In Richland, it’s the strongest and smartest man who becomes king.” Michael appeared lost in thought, whether from excitement or horror, Peter couldn’t tell. “You don’t become king overnight, so the man started small. He took several of the king’s servants to the top of a huge tower and threw them over to their deaths. Soon, news got back to the king about the new man in town, so the incumbent…ah…current…king sent soldiers to kill the man. But the man was faster, stronger, and smarter than the soldiers were, and he overcame them, throwing them off the tower as well.

  “Finally, the man decided to go see the king himself. He pretended to be nice to the king and just when he had gained the king’s confidence, the man cut the king’s head off. Whack! He claimed his crown, sat on the throne, and became the new King of Richland.”

  Michael’s small lips trembled. His thumb jutted out, seeking solace in his mouth, but he reconsidered. Peter had taught him thumb sucking was unacceptable behavior. “Daddy, was he a good king?”

  “Yes. He treated himself well.”

  “Was he ever punished for killing those people?”

  “No, if anything, he was rewarded.”

  Michael contemplated the tale Peter told him. He stared at the deer head on the wall. “Did you hate that deer, Daddy?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why’d you kill it then?” Tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes.

  “Because I could. Now, off to bed with you.” He watched Michael scamper out of the room.

  Peter harbored doubts that he truly loved his son. Callous as it may have sounded, he never deluded himself. For the six years of Michael’s life, Peter’s feelings for him had never really changed or evolved. Call them stunted feelings. And Peter didn’t see a change in the foreseeable future.

  Six years ago, when his wife had told him of her pregnancy, her eyes lit up expectantly, waiting for his joyous response. It never came.

  Peter stared at her calmly and asked, “What do you intend to do about it?” Her smile melted away. She ran out of the room, sobbing.

  Children were never part of his plans. While there was a certain allure to having an heir carry on one’s name, he realized he didn’t have the patience for parenting. Before a child reached an age of merit, he’d have to endure too much dull repetition.

  When Michael was born, Peter remained at the office throughout his wife’s labor. Barbara wanted him to be in the ‘birthing suite’ as she called it. He deemed it an impractical and stupid idea. After all, he already paid for the most expensive doctors, birthing experts, even a midwife. If they couldn’t handle it without him, then he considered it a colossal waste of money and time. Barbara responded in her typical fashion, with much drama and tears.

  When Peter finally arrived at the hospital, he stared blankly at his newborn son. Through the viewing window, he watched as his son helplessly writhed about next to other identical babies. The creatures were reddened, wrinkled little malformations—miniature versions of people. The entire experience of bringing these grotesqueries into the world somewhat saddened him. How could responsible adults give them life and not prepare them for the horrible existences most of them would experience? Of the inhuman suffering and cruelty that they would no doubt be subjected to?

  Peter’s hand slid down the glass window, leaving a smudge mark. Unexpected tears falling down his cheeks stunned him. The tears weren’t spilt over the happy, joyous birth of his son. Rather, he mourned his birth.

  Did Peter love his son, Michael? Probably not. Did he despise him? Absolutely not. Peter tolerated his son, but felt pity for him more than anything.

  But wallowing in the past never helped. He’d much rather embrace his exuberant mood.

  Then he laughed.

  I’ll bet that’s the last time I have to tell Michael a bedtime story.

  He smiled, poured himself a brandy, and tipped it in the direction of the deer head.

  Sixteen years ago, the doorbell rang late one night at Matt’s house. Matt generally associated late-night callers with anxiety and dread. This time was no different.

  “I’ll get it honey,” he told his wife. He pulled on his robe and climbed down the stairs.

  Flipping on the porch light, he peered out the peek-hole, seeing nothing. He pulled the curtain aside and spotted an idling taxi in the street. Wracking sobs pierced through the door.

  When he opened the door, he saw her. She lay on the front stoop, curled up in a ball like a sleeping dog. Shaking, her bony arms clung tight across her chest. Even given her emaciated appearance, her filthy dress appeared two sizes too small. The hemline of the skirt had ripped, covered with dirt and, maybe, blood.

  It took Matt a minute before he recognized her. “Mary?” he asked, uncertainly.

  “Who is it?” asked Cheryl, from behind him.

  “I think it’s my sister…Mary.” A bout of nausea swept over him.

  Matt carried her gently into the living room, laying her down on the sofa. Cheryl grimaced, and then ran off to retrieve some towels.

  Matt approached the still-awaiting taxi driver and knocked on his window. The driver said, “Hey, you owe me forty-three bucks.”

  “Where did you pick her up?”

  “Down at the train station. She didn’t say much. Just handed me your address.” The cab driver waved a crinkled piece of paper in front of Matt’s face as validation. “She said you’d pay the fare.”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.” Matt fumbled through his bathrobe pockets, even though he knew he had no cash there. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Hey, you know, it’s none of my business,” he yelled back at Matt, “but if I were you, I’d get that chick to a hospi
tal. She don’t look so good.”

  Matt took the driver’s advice and he and Cheryl rushed her to the Olathe County Hospital.

  After a seeming eternity, the ER doctor returned to talk to Matt and Cheryl. “Are you family?” he asked.

  “Yes, she’s my sister.” Even though he hadn’t seen her in years, Matt still cared deeply about Mary. Yet it felt odd calling her his “sister”. He thought he’d closed his family book long ago.

  “She appears to be in shock,” stated the young doctor. “She’s almost near a state of catatonia, but I’m no psychologist. She’s been beaten, abused, and underfed. She has pneumonia and a broken arm. Frankly, I’m surprised she’s even able to walk. We’re going to have to admit her for a while.”

  “Oh my God.” This sort of trauma seemed alien to Matt’s dull, married life in suburbia. It made him realize “boring” was not such a bad lifestyle, after all.

  “Do you have any idea who would’ve done this to her?” asked the doctor. “I’m going to need to report this to the local police.”

  “No, of course not,” said Matt. But it wasn’t the truth—not exactly. A sickening suspicion filled him with queasiness. “Who would want to hurt Mary? She was the nicest…” Tears filled his eyes as his words lodged in his throat. Especially since he realized he spoke about Mary as if she had already passed away.

  “Could it be the baby’s father?” asked the doctor.

  “What?”

  The doctor consulted his charts. “Mary has recently given birth. You didn’t know?” The doctor held a stern, disbelieving look on his face.

  Drenched in cold sweat, Matt ran into the hospital hallway. He barely made it to the bathroom before his stomach unleashed its contents.

  After several weeks of psychiatric evaluation, intensive medical care, and lots of bedrest, the hospital released Mary into Matt and Cheryl’s care. The psychiatrist displayed skepticism they could provide Mary with the care she needed, but Matt insisted.

  For several months, Cheryl took it upon herself to be the primary caregiver while Matt worked at the video store. Mary remained uncommunicative and needed constant attention. If anything, her vocal skills had diminished since the night they found her on their doorstep. At least then, she was able to string a few words together.