by Asher Ellis
…his forehead connected with a heavenly smooth surface.
The box.
But Jake’s physical tribulations weren’t over yet. Craning his neck upward to the point where the tendons in his neck felt as though they would snap, Jake threw out his jaw to the opened flap above his head. Like a disobedient dog snatching at a treat, he clamped his teeth into the pliable, cardboard flap, its rough edge digging into his lower lip. Not wasting any time for fear that his muscles might fail him at any minute, Jake pulled downward with all the strength left in his body. His applied force combined with the natural assistance of gravity delivered the results he’d prayed for: the box flipped over, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Jake’s eyes darted from object to object, determined to find anything that could help him. “Supplies” could mean a lot of things, and the case of this upturned box, it meant matches, glow sticks, bottled water, and dynamite. Sticks upon sticks of dynamite.
“Shit.”
Jake let his head come to rest on the hardwood floor. He’d intended to shout the word in an act of furious frustration, but in the face of his overwhelming defeat he’d hardly uttered a whisper. After the effort it took to cross what felt like a mile-long distance using only his knees, apparently Jake’s only reward had been a way to blow himself up.
Looks like I should make myself comfortable.
A radio sat on a table to his left, but it was only a tease to cruelly remind him of the impossibility of his escape. So high above him, the radio might as well have been balancing on the top of the Empire State Building. And even if he’d managed to stand his chair back up on its four legs and reach the desk, he had no way of pressing the buttons and switches necessary to make a call.
No, Jake knew he wasn’t going anywhere. All he could do now was lie on his side and stare at the plethora of useless items before him, the worst being the red sticks of explosives. They carried as much value as a pair of snowshoes on a desert island: all the dynamite offered was nitroglycerin cocooned in sawdust with a long fuse.
Then again, maybe blowing myself up isn’t such a bad—
A single stick poking out from underneath a box of matches caught his eye. Though the same color, shape, and size as the rest of the identical dynamite splayed across the floor, this stick had one very drastic difference that Jake cursed himself for not noticing sooner.
There was no fuse protruding from its top. Instead, a white plastic cap adorned its head like a soldier’s helmet. Though Jake couldn’t read from this distance what was printed on the stick’s side, he didn’t need to identify a label to know what he was looking at.
That’s a goddamned flare!
Whether the flare had been misidentified or purposely thrown in the box by a lazy ranger who didn’t care to thoroughly organize the outpost’s equipment didn’t matter in the slightest. All that mattered was that Jake now had a means of escape.
Of course, it was still far from ideal. Jake’s surge of excitement sizzled when he thought about what using the flare would entail. He was confident he’d be able to use his hands to remove the cap and strike the flare on its coarse striking surface, but in order to burn the rope on his wrists he’d have to torch far more than that. He would literally have to put his hands to the torch’s red-hot flame. He could only hope that the ropes would sever instantly. The pain would probably only allow for a second or two of burning at most. But it was either that or remain lying on the floor with his new roommate. And he didn’t think Phil would be much for conversation.
Taking a deep breath before commencing, Jake threw all the weight he could to his left, attempting to flip himself over. He only lifted himself an inch, and he knew he’d have to use his toes to scoot himself around 180 degrees.
The task was difficult and time-consuming, but luck on was on his side, allowing Jake just enough leverage with his feet to complete the entire rotation. With his back now to the pile of the box’s contents strewn across the ground, Jake reached out with his hands and felt for the stick with the plastic cap. It took several tries, but Jake found it.
Holding the stick with his dominant right hand, he pulled off the plastic cap, being careful not to drop it. His fingers allowed him to rotate the cap so that he could feel the roughness of the igniting surface underneath. He lined up the flare to the flint. Everything was ready.
Jake shut his eyes, attempting to control the nervous breath that rushed in and out of his lungs. He tried to assure himself it would all be over in the blink of an eye, that it wouldn’t even be as bad as getting a shot of Novocain before a cavity removal. Finally, he just had to smile and opened his eyes. There were just no two ways about it.
This was going to suck.
“Fuck me.”
Without giving himself the chance to second guess his actions, Jake struck the flare against the coarse surface as hard as he could.
He lunged forward and screamed the moment the hiss and color of the flare filled the room. His wrists and the bottoms of his palms felt as if he’d dunked them in a vat of molten lava. It was pure heat, the most intense pain Jake had ever felt in his life. The fire seemed to engulf his entire body, igniting his nerves everywhere with the sting of a thousand hornets. The burn of a thousand flames.
But though the pain seemed to last an eternity, the strength of the ropes did not. The rope was been dry and old, and the combination of the flare’s fire with all of Jake’s body weight lunging forward was far more than the binding could bear. The ropes gave and Jake flew forward, almost bashing his chin on his knees.
The flare dropped from his grip the moment the rope gave and released his wrists. Jake brought them to his chest, desperately trying to shake away the lingering pain. The skin on his palms had turned a deep red, and bubbles of fresh blisters ran along his wrists. But considering the direct exposure to the flame his hands had just endured, his injuries appeared much less severe than he’d expected. All in all, the process must have taken far less time than his pain had suggested, leaving him with just a small burn, second-degree at the most.
Ignoring his flesh that begged for cooling, Jake went straight for the ropes binding his feet to the legs of the chair. Fortunately, the flare had hardly touched his fingers, which made untying Phil’s expert knots infinitely easier. And with the amount of adrenaline still pumping through his system, Jake was sure he could’ve have easily ripped the ropes apart like the Incredible Hulk himself.
Standing upright and feeling the floor underneath his shoes had never felt so good, but Jake didn’t couldn’t spare any time to savor the sensation. He frantically dug up a bottle of water from the mess of the cardboard box, ripped off the cap, and drenched his tender skin. The water was the nectar of heaven, instantly cooling the burn. Jake repeated the process with two more bottles before drinking a fourth in large gulps. The last bottle in the box he used to douse the flare, applying what was left to his burns and pouring it down his still-parched throat.
Pushing aside the tempting thought of calling it quits and getting some much-needed rest, Jake turned his attention to the first aid box near the outpost’s front door. Inside he found gauze pads, some medical tape, and a bottle of antiseptic. Pouring the disinfectant on his wounds reignited the pain, but Jake applied it generously, reminding himself over and over that the excruciating sizzle was a good thing.
With his injuries cleaned and securely wrapped, Jake marched over to Phil’s splayed corpse. Touching or even getting anywhere near his ex-coworker’s body was the last thing he wanted to do, but Jake knew he had no choice when he eyed the radio attached to Phil’s belt. It was clear that avoiding the blood completely just wasn’t going to happen, but at least the first aid kit was not without a pair of latex gloves. With his hands fully protected, Jake removed the radio from Phil’s blood-soaked holster and switched it on.
He tuned it to Doug’s frequency. “Doug, come back.”
Static answered.
“Doug, it’s Jake. Answer if you can hear me.”
Again,
nothing.
“Shit,” Jake said, tearing the radio from his ear in frustration. The questions that Doug’s failed response brought were practically endless. Why wasn’t he answering? Had he found the tourists who’d left the note? Were they okay? Was he okay? Why hadn’t he returned or sent another ranger to Maple Ridge when Jake hadn’t met him there?
Only one thing was for certain: Jake wasn’t going to find any answers here. His best course of action was to jump back on his ATV and continue where he’d left off before Phil showed up to crash the party. Though heading directly back to the station and calling for backup was tempting, he first had to make sure Doug and the stranded group of hikers were okay. After hearing Phil’s appalling tale, he knew a fungal disease was the least of their concerns.
Phil’s rifle lay in a pool of blood a few inches from his ruined skull. Keeping the gloves on, Jake retrieved the weapon and doused it with the disinfectant. He then wiped it clean and checked its cartridge for ammo: loaded.
Minus one bullet.
Jake turned to face the dead body of his fellow ranger. Despite the devastated state of Phil’s cranium, Jake knelt over the dead man’s face and pulled the lids down over his open eyes.
“Rest in peace, old friend.”
With the warm wetness of tears pooling in the corner of his eyes, Jake removed his gloved hand from Phil’s sticky face and stood back up. Shifting the rifle to rest on his shoulder, Jake brought his straight fingers to his brow and offered the old Navy man one final salute.
Rifle slung across his back, Jake grabbed the note still lying on the radio’s table and made for the outpost’s front door. He read the note as he walked, wanting to know his exact destination the moment his ass hit the seat of his ATV. He’d just passed through the door’s threshold into the welcoming light of morning when he was stopped dead in his tracks by the words he encountered.
HELP!!!
We are a small group of day hikers in need of medical treatment. One of us has become very sick. The Cedar family has been kind enough to let us stay at their home while we await assistance. They are located on the far west side of Emerald Lake. You will see their chimney smoke from the shore. Please hurry!!!
Jake didn’t bother to read it again. He was already gone.
Chapter 23
Once inside, Leigh discovered that the “barn” was more of a makeshift garage. Instead of walls lined with stables or farming equipment, antique lumberjack machines inhabited most of the space. A diesel-powered log-splitter sat abandoned in a far corner, a thick layer of dust and grime concealing years of accumulated rust. A long, two-person crosscut saw stretched along the building’s left wall like the remaining smile of the vanishing Cheshire Cat.
We’re all mad here.
Piles of axes, hatchets, and bark removers sat scattered all across the floor, and there was even an old, out-of-service pickup tucked away between two stacks of crates, its hood propped open, revealing an empty cavity where the engine should have been. In fact, the only material actually suited for a “barn” was the old, moldy haystack that lay near the entrance.
Bugger threw open the barn’s door and hurled Leigh to the dirty ground. Her captor loomed over her, a demon grin spreading across his face as he reached for yet another knife strapped to his person.
And this one was big.
“No…”
Bugger nodded, the ecstatic anticipation never leaving his eyes as he watched Leigh, who was scrambling backward away from him.
“Oh, yes,” he whispered.
The blade of the knife reflected the beams of morning sun sneaking in through the cracks of the barn walls. Leigh kept crawling as Bugger took slow, deliberate steps toward her. She was a mouse caught in a cat’s game—hoping for a swift and painless death in her immediate future. But Bugger had all the time in the world. And he intended to use it.
Leigh’s hand landed in puddle of tepid water but she didn’t notice. Nothing could tear her attention away from the lust for flesh and blood in Bugger’s eyes.
She shrieked when he darted forward.
He retreated a step and laughed. “What’d you say? I didn’t catch that.”
Though Bugger’s advance came in short, drawn-out steps, the wall behind Leigh was fast approaching. She knew when her back hit that wall it would be the end of the line. She would have nowhere to go and no way to defend herself against Bugger and the prop that looked like it had been stolen from Friday the 13th in his tight grip.
“Please.” Her voice came out strangled. “Don’t do this.”
Bugger’s eyes closed in elation. He inhaled a deep breath as he savored Leigh’s helplessness and fear. “That’s right,” he groaned in pleasure. “Keep talking.”
With her assailant’s eyes closed, Leigh seized the opportunity to whip her head back and steal a glance at the environment to her rear. The barn wall was a mere ten feet away. Once she reached it, she would be pinned between a wobbly worktable and a large pickle barrel. But it was the table that caught her eye—resting alongside it in the corner closest to her was a wooden mallet.
A weapon.
Leigh would have to somehow take her attacker’s attention away from the blunt object, reach it with her hand, and deliver a blow powerful enough to buy her the time she needed to get away. All before Bugger had time to take that oversized blade and cut into her heart like a butcher’s knife through a stick of butter.
Mission impossible.
Or is it?
Leigh knew her only chance at survival was to divert Bugger’s focus to the anything that wasn’t her own blood.
“Come on, Bugger, you don’t want to do this. Not yet.”
Bugger practically giggled. “What, you don’t think this is fun?”
“Sure it is.” Leigh closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “But I know of a better way we can have fun.”
She stared at his crotch, hoping to bring as much hunger to her eyes as she could possibly conjure.
Bugger stopped in his tracks.
And then burst into laughter.
“How stupid do you think I am?” He followed his question with a few more hoots and hollers. “I may not go to fancy schools like my faggot cousin, but I got enough brains in my head to know when a bitch is trying to trick me.”
He took two more steps forward. Leigh matched them by backing up.
Just a few more feet…
“It’s not a trick!” The sincerity in Leigh’s voice surprised even her. “Haven’t you ever heard of passengers jumping each other when their plane is about to crash? People always want to fuck before they die.”
She lowered her chin so she was staring up at Bugger from beneath her eyelashes.
“And I want to fuck you.”
Again, Bugger stopped. But this time he didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. He simply stared at his prey, attempting to detect deception in her words.
He took a challenging step forward, and Leigh brought her finger to her mouth. Though she couldn’t even stand a tongue depressor during a doctor’s visit, from sheer desperation she was able to stay her gag reflex and allow her finger to travel all the way down her throat to the last knuckle. Her eyes never left his.
Removing the finger from her mouth, she felt her back lightly graze a hard surface behind her. She’d reached the wall.
Leigh stared up at her captor, imagining Alex’s trademark pout and trying to mimic the expression as best she could. “Are you such a monster that you wouldn’t give me one last lay before I go?”
Leigh had no idea who was speaking anymore, but it definitely wasn’t her. She wasn’t this good an actress. Hell, she wasn’t this good a liar. And in a million years, she wouldn’t have thought to add, “Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I just wanted to do it once before I died.”
Bugger almost dropped the knife in his hand but recovered before it could fall from his fingers. Clearing his throat like a nervous schoolboy, he asked, “You mean…you never?”
“And it looks like
I never will.”
It lasted only a moment, but Leigh couldn’t miss the change in Bugger’s expression, hinting that her act of seduction had worked. With this new, hidden side of hers that had emerged, she kept the look of lust pasted on her face and didn’t allow him to see her satisfaction in this small gain. She’d keep up this charade until he was upon her. And then, with his face buried in her chest, she’d reach for the mallet and come down on his skull like a judge’s gavel delivering a sentence of eternal darkness.
Leigh still knew she couldn’t bear his touch again, but she wouldn’t have to: this new woman could. She could do anything in order to survive. Leigh just had to go along for the ride. It was she who was in control now.
But Bugger didn’t put his knife away. And he didn’t lower his pants.
He just smiled and said, “Nope. I guess not. But don’t worry. I’ll be just as happy to fill every hole. After I slit your throat.”
At these words, she was suddenly gone. In fact, she had never even existed in the first place. There was no new woman being born within Leigh’s consciousness. No femme fatale or black widow finally getting a chance to come out and play. Leigh was only herself, the same person she’d always been and she would die as: alone with an evil she’d utterly underestimated. Bugger was more than a redneck or a sadist or a rapist.
He was a psychopath. She’d read about them many times in the textbooks of her psychology courses, but none of that had prepared her for the real thing. The complete absence of empathy that was Bugger.
Even the prospect of raping a virgin was tame in his eyes compared to the chance to deny his victim her dying wish. Blood and flesh—those were byproducts. Party favors. How foolish she’d been to think she could convince him to give her anything, even a final mercy fuck. In Bugger’s world, giving did not exist. There was only loss—and his insatiable craving for flesh.
So it turned out that Sam was dead-on. To Bugger, cannibalism was more than a remedy to a horrible disease. It was the act of taking life that drove him. The ultimate consumption.