Cleaving Souls

by Chauncey Rogers

  15

  Alex slowed to a stop at the edge of a steep hill. The adrenaline rush that had surged through after hearing the screams had disappeared, and now all that remained was a panicked worry. He hadn’t heard anything else, but now that he had stopped running, he realized just how much noise he’d been making himself. Battering away branches, crashing through bushes, and his own labored breathing made such a din that, even if there had been more screams, it was quite unlikely that he would have heard them.

  He looked down the slope, daring to hope that he’d be able to see something from the vantage point, but all he saw was a tangle of green.

  Alex took a deep breath, partially to clear his head, and partially to steady his panting.

  Direction. He needed some direction. Running madly through the forest was more likely to get him lost than anything else. He needed to just pause, think things through, and move forward calmly. Whatever trouble Kat was in—or whatever trouble she was causing—wouldn’t be resolved any more quickly by him going helter-skelter through the woods like a decapitated chicken.

  He would sit, and he would think.

  As he moved to sit down, something in his pocket jabbed against his leg. Suzzane’s phone. Straightening up again, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the phone, but found his keys instead. Transferring them to his other hand, he reached in again and grabbed the phone.

  He almost kicked himself. He should have called Doyle a long time ago. Unless he’d gotten totally mixed up while driving around, the old man had probably been a lot closer to the screams when they’d sounded.

  Suzzane kept the phone unlocked, and Alex mumbled a quick blessing on her head. He checked the phone’s reception: spotty, of course. He couldn’t have expected anything else out here in the sticks. But it might hold a call. Might. Probably Doyle had tried to call him already and it just hadn’t come through.

  He’d call Doyle, Doyle could tell him what had happened, and then they’d get this whole thing cleared up. No more messing around—Kat would go to an institution until they could get that mutated growth out of her shoulder and get her hormone levels rebalanced.

  He navigated to the recent calls, found what he guessed was Doyle’s number, and put the call through. He put the phone to his ear and listened for it to connect.

  The ring came through the phone’s speaker a few seconds later.

  A second after that, the ring of a phone sounded a few feet behind him.

  Alex turned towards the sound, spinning just in time to see Doyle, his face and hands smeared with blood, charging towards him with a knife in his hand.

  Alex’s survival instincts immediately took over, seizing control of him and guiding his every action. He dropped the phone and keys and held up empty hands, readied to ward off the knife. His legs bent, prepping to spring to either side and dodge out of the way of Doyle’s charge. His muscles tightened, and—

  Doyle slammed into him. Alex barely managed to latch onto the man’s knife-wielding wrist and prevent it from plunging down at him, before he was lifted handily off his feet by the force of the impact. He flew backwards through the air, with blood-faced and mad-eyed Doyle right behind him.

  Alex landed backwards on the steep slope, and then Doyle landed atop him, his knee coming down heavily onto Alex’s thigh. The rest of him slammed down afterwards, blowing the wind from Alex’s chest and shocking him into releasing Doyle’s wrist from his grip. Doyle flipped over the top of Alex, his momentum too great and the angle of the incline too steep for him to stop. He rolled off and fell down the slope, pushing the brush in his path down like a loose boulder.

  It took a moment for the stars to clear from Alex’s vision. Once they had, it still took another while before he had breath enough to move. When he finally did, he found his body sluggish and unresponsive. He rolled onto his side and tried to get to his feet. That was when the pain hit him.

  The moment he tried to move his leg, a flame of anguish exploded into life within his thigh, and he toppled to the ground once more, crying out and grabbing a sapling to keep from sliding down the slope. Still dazed, he tried again to force the leg to support his weight beneath him, but once again the pain fired through him, and he buckled to the earth.

  Wincing, he pulled himself a few feet up the hill to where the incline wasn’t so steep, then clawed his way up a tree trunk until he was standing on one leg. He didn’t need an x-ray to tell him that his femur had been cracked—his body was sending the message through to him quite clearly now.

  He stood near the edge of the ravine again, looking down the track that had been left by Doyle’s tumbling body. The surprise was to see that Doyle was already nearly halfway back up the slope, scrambling up and using his hands nearly as much as his feet. In one hand, Alex saw, he still clutched the bloodied knife.

  But it wasn’t his blood.

  Alex’s terrified heart sank at the realization. Kat’s screams, the blood on the knife, the quiet of the forest—he didn’t know exactly what had happened, and he had no idea why it had happened, but the only conclusion he could reach was that Doyle had murdered his wife, and now was after him.

  He turned from the ravine and began desperately limping away as fast as he could, hoping to reach his car and his escape before the rampaging killer reached him.

  But as the pain in his leg swelled and slowed him down, the dim hope of finding safety faded to despairing terror.

  16

  Something in the cry jolted Kat back to her senses. It wakened her, cleared her mind, numbed her pain. Perhaps it was nothing more than another surge of adrenaline before her body gave out, but she took it without question and rose to her feet.

  Suzzane was dead. Doyle had come after them, but he wasn’t himself anymore, and the voice hadn’t belonged to him. And what had he gone after, anyway? Abandoning his hunt for her in exchange for....

  Him. Alex. Her husband.

  She had to reach him. Even if the fire man had reached him first, Kat still had to find him. She wasn’t sure she had another choice in the matter, anyway. She was well and truly lost—the only thing she knew for certain was the direction that Alex’s yell had come from. If she could find him, though—if, somehow, she could find him, they might still make it out of the forest alive.

  Kat pushed off from the tree and started in the direction that Doyle had gone in, alert for any sign of the possessed man and listening for any more cries from her husband.

  17

  Alex could only guess at how far behind him Doyle might be. Perhaps the man had been hurt as well—it only stood to reason that a man his age wouldn’t fall down a slope like that without some consequences. But then, the madness that Alex had glimpsed in his eyes did not look likely to be deterred or diminished by a mere tumble.

  Alex grit his teeth against the throb in his femur. Every time a new wave of pain washed over him, it would nearly flood away or drown out all previous thoughts, and Alex found that it took a great deal of focus to simply keep moving forward.

  That is, until he came within sight of the burnt-out cabin again. Just beyond it, he could catch glimpses of his car through the trees. Somewhere off behind him, Doyle might be crashing through the woods in hot pursuit, but what did it matter now? Alex could reach the car—he knew that much for certain. He could push himself, hurry, and be in the car and on his way before Doyle emerged from the woods. He’d call the police, and—

  A thought pushed through his pain and determination. A cold, mirthless realization.

  He didn’t have a phone. He’d dropped it when Doyle had attacked him.

  He patted his pockets.

  He didn’t have keys, either.

  Hope turned to panic as the noise of branches breaking sounded clearly from behind him. He pushed himself forwards, moving towards the cabin.

  Perhaps he could hide inside? Maybe he could find a loose board, or one of the knives beneath the rubble—anything to defend himself with. It seemed desperate to him, but this was time f
or desperation.

  He limped through the charred doorway and into the house, just as flashes of Doyle became visible through the foliage.

  18

  Kat couldn’t see the incision that Suzzane had made into her side, but she thought that maybe the bleeding had stopped during her rest beside the tree. She moved carefully now, trying to keep the bandages tucked tightly up against it and limiting the movement of her left arm to almost nothing.

  Kat hadn’t had to guess for very long which way to go. After going the same direction Doyle had gone in, she came to the edge of a steep slope, with a line of broken brush down its side from where someone had recently tumbled. Fortunately, Alex’s body was nowhere to be seen, and there was no blood on any of the leaves or grass, either. But Kat guessed that someone was hurt, given the dragging footprints through the dirt and mud leading away. Adding to that her memory of Alex’s cry of pain, and she was pretty sure that it was he who had been injured.

  But still, no sign of a body yet. Perhaps she wasn’t too late.

  Moving as quickly as she dared, she followed after the dragging footprints, staying ever wary for any sign of Doyle.

  19

  The smell of smoke and ruin stung Alex’s nose and made his eyes water, but far worse was the sound. Every move he made crunched loudly in his ears, as the rubble shifted and resettled beneath his feet. The sound would have been no trouble to him, except that each one threatened to betray his hiding place. Doyle had emerged from the woods not long after Alex had gone into the house, but instead of heading straight towards him as he’d anticipated, Doyle had reentered the woods and prowled along towards the car, apparently thinking that Alex had gone there.

  Whatever the reason, Alex was grateful for the diversion. He needed to find one of those knives before Doyle figured out where he was, and that probably only left him a minute or two at most.

  Bending low to the ground required Alex to move his leg, and each time he did the pain stung him, slowing him and making him clumsy. He shifted through the blackened rubble, but in vain. He cast his mind back, trying to remember where the knives had lay when the fire began.

  It made him want to cry out in frustration. They’d been everywhere, it had seemed. Scattered all across floor. He’d had to step carefully to avoid slicing a toe open. But now that he needed them, they were all gone.

  He cursed under his breath. This was exactly why he’d gotten a sidearm—so that when a lunatic came after him with a knife, he wouldn’t end up being defenseless. Now, after pulling it out so many times at shadows and phantoms, when he actually had a reason to use it, when he truly needed it, it was—

  In the other room. In a flash of memory, Alex recalled laying it at the bottom of the suitcase. When the room had caught fire, the suitcase had been left behind. It would still be in there, then, even now.

  Alex stopped digging through the rubble and raised up to peer through the window. Doyle’s image drifted between a few trees as he circled around to the car. Alex might be able to recover the pistol, provided it hadn’t disappeared along with the knives.

  He deliberated for a second. If he stood, Doyle would see him and come for him. If he crouched....he couldn’t crouch. His leg wouldn’t allow it. He could crawl. Over the glass.

  But it was glass shards in his palms, or a knife in his neck.

  Scrunching up his face at the anticipated pain, Alex began moving through the house on his hands and knees, scraping his way across the kitchen floor and into the small front room, his broken leg dragging uselessly and painfully behind him.

  Just when he thought he was managing the pain from his broken leg, his limp foot snagged on the corner of the doorway to the kitchen, and his leg was pulled out behind him. Alex couldn’t help it: he whimpered from the pain, and a tear leaked out from the corner of his eye; miraculously, he did not scream.

  Steeling himself, he started across the charred ruins of the front room. Luckily, much of the ceiling had collapsed down during the blaze, and the glass shards that he had anticipated were mostly covered by the debris. By snaking a little, he was able to stay clear of the likeliest hiding places for the glass.

  “Come out.”

  Doyle’s voice came from just outside—somewhere between the car and the cabin’s front door. Alex jerked when he heard it, and his hand came down in a pile of ash.

  “I see you there. Just come out.”

  Alex’s head lowered. Another tear dropped from his eye. He lifted his hand from the ash, and a few pieces of glass rose with it. A bead of blood formed in the heel of his palm, then ran across it towards his wrist. It didn’t matter much now, though, did it?

  He shut his eyes, wondering if he should bother trying to dash into the bedroom. What good would it accomplish? Doyle was already there with that knife. Alex wouldn’t stand a chance at fighting him—not with his leg busted—and the pistol would probably take some time to find.

  “I said come out! I know you’ve lost a lot of blood, already. I don’t want to chase you. I need you alive.”

  Alex opened his eyes and eased his head to the side. Doyle didn’t see him. Doyle couldn’t see him. Not from where he was, at least. That meant—

  “You don’t want to die,” Doyle continued. “Your husband left. He’s gone. You want to come with me now. I’ll close up your wound and keep you safe. It’ll be alright.”

  Kat was still alive, then. She had to be, and now Doyle was being distracted by her. If he could get the gun, maybe he could still save them both.

  With renewed motivation, Alex began crawling forwards once more, leaving a trail of thick blood droplets across the floor.

  20

  Kat stood up and stepped forward. Up from behind the last tree trunk. Forward from the forest’s edge. Out into the open, across from Chris, who glared at her through Doyle’s eyes. Kat still had her hand pressed into her armpit, her fingers stuck together by her own coagulating blood. She could feel the sweat on her face—there from exertion, shock, and fear.

  But it was ending now. Where Alex had gone, she had no idea. But she couldn’t run anymore. Even standing was difficult. She wavered, then leaned back against the tree trunk, her eyes still locked with Doyle’s. Now was the time to either surrender, or do what she’d been dreading doing alone.

  Doyle’s shoulders went up and down quickly, matching pace with his rapid, shallow panting. His face had paled, and perspiration poured down him, but he was still large, and he was still strong, and he still held the knife in his meaty hands.

  “I’m not going with you,” Kat said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Kat fished her thumb around the edge of the bandages, as carefully as she could, and slipped it into the gash.

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise you will die.”

  “I think,” she grimaced, “that I might prefer that, to being a host for you and my sister.”

  Doyle’s face twitched with Chris’s rage, but then, with obvious exertion, he managed to calm himself. “It wouldn’t have to be like that. You’d have to get rid of Alex, but you’d still have a life.”

  Kat’s thumb was swimming in a thick puddle of blood now, but she couldn’t feel anything. She pushed her thumb farther up into the cut.

  “What kind of a life?” Kat said, forcing her voice to remain steady through the pain. “I need to know before I can agree to anything.”

  “You can be yourself during the day. But at night....” Doyle’s eyelids fluttered for a second, and Kat wondered if it was from sweat or tears. “Please. Just let us have the nights together.”

  Kat paused, as if considering. In reality, she was working her thumb a little farther. It had scraped against something—something she couldn’t feel, except with her fingertip. Something that didn’t belong to her.

  “And what about Alex? I need to know that he’d be safe.”

  Doyle nodded quickly. “He’d be safe,” Chris promised. “Unless he came near. He can’t be part of our lives anymor
e.”

  “Our lives?” Kat shivered from pain and disgust. “It isn’t our lives. This is my life. You’re dead. You have no life left!”

  Doyle looked at the ground for a few seconds, hiding his emotions. When he looked back up, the anger was there again. “I wouldn’t be, if we’d found each other. I just couldn’t.... I couldn’t take being alone anymore. It felt like there was nobody for me, and that was all that I wanted. And there wasn’t anyone, and it was your fault. There should have been, but there wasn’t. Now, come with me,” he said, taking a measured step forwards and watching her reaction. “Don’t make anyone else die.”

  Kat finally managed to squirm her index finger in alongside her thumb. The pair of them groped towards the foreign body as Kat leaned against the tree.

  “I didn’t make anyone die,” Kat said. “You can’t hold me responsible for what happened to my sister, or to you.”

  “I can. And I do. Denying it won’t change what’s happened. But, if it helps you, you can see it your own way, so long as you come with me. I won’t let you get away, so you either come with me, or we all die here. What do you say?”

  Kat’s thumb and finger finally pinched over the ball in her shoulder. She grimaced in pain as she grabbed hold of it, then looked at Chris with a hatred to match his own. For a brief second, the grimace hardened into a frown.

  “Go to hell,” she whispered.

  Then she yanked on the ball.

  The bandages ripped away from the cut along with her hand and fell to the ground in a sodden heap. But her fingers, slicked by her own blood, came away empty. Her twin sister had slipped from her grasp.