The Hoard

by Alan Ryker

  Amanda and Joe were unconscious, but Lizzie sobbed in wide-eyed terror that filled Don with panic and anger. He yanked at his bonds, but couldn’t get free. He couldn’t even feel his hands.

  “It’s okay, honey,” he said.

  The look in her eyes let him know that he wasn’t fooling her.

  * * *

  Nick Bonner sat drinking one of his dad’s Buds and watching some random soft-core Skinemax flick that had him rock hard. He was tempted to beat off right there, but just couldn’t risk it with his parents asleep down the hall. God, he got enough shit from them just for being nineteen, unemployed and still living at home without them witnessing him flogging the one-eyed monster.

  He’d take it to his room soon enough, but he actually wanted to see how the plot turned out. It was like they hooked him with the nude lesbians, but kept him with the story.

  Then somebody turned the front doorknob. Nick couldn’t believe it.

  He finally had his chance.

  He ran to his room and grabbed his ball bat, then rushed to the west side of the house. After finding the front door locked, he bet the burglar would work his way in that direction, and he quietly popped the latches on a window and slid it open a couple of inches. Sure enough, he only had to wait a minute before the creep opened the window the rest of the way and started to crawl inside. Unfortunately for him, Nick was standing to the side of the window with his bat held high over his head. He brought it down on the back of the crook’s skull with a crack.

  And an old woman in a nightdress tumbled onto the floor.

  “Oh no,” Nick said. “Oh no oh no oh no…”

  He felt at her neck and thought he found a pulse. The old bitch was alive, but probably not for much longer. He pressed gently at the back of her head. He thought he felt it give, like it might be smashed. His fingers came away bloody.

  He paced and muttered curses and considered his options.

  She’d been breaking into his house, and property was nine-tenths of the law, right? So he had a legal right to kill her, right? But this was an old woman, probably senile. What jury would take his side?

  But he’d heard of people who’d shot burglars and gotten off. But he’d also heard of people who’d shot burglars in the back and gone to prison for life. He’d hit her in the back of the head.

  That wouldn’t look good. Not at all.

  After taking stock of the situation, he realized that he only had one option that made any sense: to take her out into a pasture and bury her deep enough that the coyotes wouldn’t dig her up.

  She was so light he could carry her over a shoulder with one arm. He didn’t even have to set her down to get a shovel from the tool shed. But she stank. She stank so bad he almost puked.

  They didn’t have a lot of land, only two acres, but Nick’s dad had once owned a few cattle before becoming a shift supervisor down at the factory, which now had him working overtime most days. So the back acre—which was still hemmed in by a barbed wire fence and didn’t get mowed—was empty, and a safe place to bury the old lady.

  After dropping her to the ground, Nick gasped for fresh air. Tossed over his shoulder like that, he couldn’t shake the thought that he was smelling old-lady crotch.

  He started digging. The ground was dry and hard, the roots of the grass went deep and cemented it all together, and his heels hurt from stomping down on the shovel with his sneakers. He thought about going back and getting his work boots, but he didn’t want to wake his parents.

  The hole was about two feet deep when the worst possible thing that could happen happened. The old woman groaned, then opened her eyes.

  She couldn’t live. Logically, she couldn’t live because she was old and tiny and frail and he’d hit her in the head with a goddamn baseball bat. Nick had played Little League. She shouldn’t have survived that. But she also couldn’t live because if she did, everything would come down on him.

  And if he thought his parents’ house felt like prison, prison would definitely feel like—prison.

  He raised the shovel overhead. He’d always loved what he called “shovel kills” in horror flicks. But he just couldn’t do it. He tossed the shovel aside.

  The little old lady struggled to sit up.

  “Are you okay?” He knelt down and helped her sit. She started to rise to her feet.

  “No, you shouldn’t get up.” Nick stood. “I’m going to go get help.”

  But as he walked away, she said, “Wait,” in a surprisingly strong voice.

  He turned back, and for a fraction of a second the blade of the shovel filled his vision.

  CHAPTER 16

  Rebecca steered her office down the road. That’s what she and her fellow social workers all called their cars, calling the actual office “home base”, because most of them only saw it for a few minutes a day. Doing social work in a rural community meant a lot of driving. And unfortunately, Rebecca had to go all the way to Wichita to get a decent selection of audio books.

  She hit pause on Moby Dick and dialed up Peter Grish’s number. Katherine answered.

  “Katherine, it’s Rebecca Shoemaker with Adult Protective Services. I’m calling because Anna missed her first appointment and then her rescheduled appointment with the psychologist. I was wondering—”

  “I’ll get Peter.”

  “Hold on. Can I ask you—”

  “No. I’m not dealing with this. I’ll radio Peter. It’ll be a minute. He’s working.”

  “Alright. Thanks.”

  Household tensions were obviously running high. Rebecca could sympathize. But if they couldn’t get Anna to go to her appointments, then Anna probably needed to be put in a home. Rebecca knew that this was the most likely outcome, but it was also the last resort if the family was willing to help out.

  A few minutes passed before Katherine said, “He says he’s busy. He says he’ll make another appointment.”

  Rebecca could pick up a lot of anger in the voice, and figured it was both at Peter for putting her in that position, and for Rebecca for creating the position in the first place. She’d found that anger didn’t need a logical target. When a person felt angry, they found someone to aim it at. And what Rebecca was about to say wouldn’t make it any better. “I’m going to be there in about twenty minutes, so I can talk to him then.”

  “Hold on.” After a minute, “He’ll be here in five. Should he call you?”

  “That’d be good, thanks.”

  There was a click. “No goodbye?” Rebecca asked no one. “I thought we’d grown closer than that.”

  A few minutes passed, and her phone rang. Peter was a bit better with proper phone etiquette than his wife and they passed a few pleasantries before he got down to it. “I’m sorry about missing the last appointment. Something came up. I’ll call and reschedule right now.”

  “That’s good, but I still have to come by. It’s protocol.”

  “Now’s not a good time.”

  “It never is, but I’m coming over. If you want to keep your mother at your home, she needs to be there so I can note how she’s doing. The psychologist is also qualified to do that, but because she missed her appointments, I need to see her. Now.”

  “You can’t come over.”

  “Then I’m going to call the authorities and have her removed from your home.” Rebecca could see that was where all this was headed, anyway, though she didn’t understand why. Peter really seemed to care about his mother. Maybe her mental condition had declined to the point where he was afraid to let Rebecca see. But in that case, he should want Rebecca’s help getting his mother in the best possible situation.

  Peter sighed loudly. His breath roared in the phone. “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “At her house.”

  “Peter…”

  “I know! Do you think I don’t fucking know?” Then away from the mouthpiece, “Sorry.” Then back, “I can’t get her to leave.”

  “I’m going over there right n
ow. I’d suggest you meet me there.”

  “That’s a really bad idea.”

  “But it’s happening.” With that, she hung up.

  * * *

  Peter was waiting beneath a tree just off the driveway. Rebecca pulled up beside him, kicking up a cloud of dust that had him coughing.

  “Sorry about that,” she said as she left the air-conditioned paradise of her car and had the breath sucked right out of her lungs by the mid-day inferno.

  Sweat poured down Peter’s face. “You’re not going to listen, but I’m begging you to leave her alone.”

  Rebecca didn’t reply, just walked toward the front porch.

  Then Peter grabbed her upper arm. His big hand wrapped most of the way around it. Rebecca spun, putting on her authoritative face.

  Peter let go and held his hands up. “Just let me talk first. Please don’t knock on that door.”

  Rebecca nodded and waved him forward.

  Before Peter even stepped on the porch, he shouted, “Mom! It’s me, Pete!”

  After a moment, as if he were letting that sink in, he started slowly up the steps. “Mom! The social worker is here. We need to talk to you.”

  There was no reply. Rebecca came up the steps and attempted to stand beside Peter, but he herded her back with a big arm. Rebecca almost challenged him, but decided it wasn’t where her energy needed to go just then.

  “Ms. Grish, can I come in and talk to you?”

  “Go away,” came through the door.

  “Ms. Grish, are you denying me entrance to your property?”

  “Go!” The voice had sounded almost feeble the first time, but now was a roar Rebecca could barely believe came from the little old woman.

  “Then the authorities are coming. I’m calling them now.” When there was no reply, Rebecca shrugged past Peter and slid her business card under the door, then walked back towards her car.

  “You can’t call the sheriff,” Peter said, following her.

  “Sorry.” Rebecca got into her car and pulled it off the property and as far off the gravel road as she could without getting stuck. Despite gas prices, her next vehicle would definitely be a truck or an SUV.

  Peter knocked on her window. She locked the doors and dialed her phone.

  “Sheriff’s Department. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Stan, this is Rebecca Shoemaker.”

  “Hey, Rebecca, how’s it going?”

  “Not bad, but I need some help. I have a client I need removed from her property.”

  “Okay, what’s the story?”

  “An elderly woman named Anna Grish is squatting in her condemned house and needs to be taken into state custody.”

  “Fax me the details and I’ll be sure someone gets in touch with you when we can manage it.”

  “Stan, she needs to be removed now. The place is a health hazard. She’s one of the most severe hoarders I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m sorry, Rebecca, but unless you can tell me this is an emergency, there’s no way this is going to happen quickly. You’ve been watching the news, right?”

  Of course. Rebecca hadn’t considered how busy the department would be with all the missing people. “Yeah, how’s that going?”

  “I didn’t tell you, but not great. So unless this is an emergency—and by that I mean this old woman is dying right now—you’re going to have to get in line.”

  The house was poisonous. She’d seen firsthand how quickly Anna’s health had improved as soon as she left that toxic environment. But, while Rebecca couldn’t imagine being able to withstand those conditions, hoarders often did so for years, getting ill, but only dying slowly. Rebecca needed to maintain a good relationship with the Sheriff’s Department.

  “No, this isn’t an emergency.”

  “Okay. Then fax me the information and somebody will contact you before too long. Sorry, Rebecca.”

  “I understand. Talk at you later.”

  Peter had retreated to the shade tree. Rebecca got out and walked to the edge of the property, making a bit of a show of not putting even a toe across the line.

  “Unfortunately, with everything that’s been happening around here, we can’t take care of this situation right now. But I’m starting the process of getting your mother into the state’s care.”

  Peter shook his head, but he looked sad, not angry. “That’s not how we do things out here.”

  “You think I’m an alien from another planet? I’m from ‘out here’. I know how things are done. I know that my clients do better when their family is involved, and I can tell that you really care. So get your mother out of that house and give me an excuse to let you take care of this.”

  Peter nodded. “You’re right.”

  He looked nearly crushed beneath the weight of the situation. Rebecca wondered how long he could hold up. Maybe it would be best to just take his mother away, regardless.

  “These missing people,” she said to change the subject. “They’re saying they look like abductions.”

  It wasn’t the right subject to change to. “I knew most of them. They’re all from right around here. John is an old family friend, and Donald runs the garage in Milfield.”

  “Wow. Well, I hope they’re okay.”

  Peter nodded, and Rebecca turned and escaped the uncomfortable situation as quickly as she could without running.

  CHAPTER 17

  Through the door, Anna heard Peter talking to the woman, the invader. She couldn’t understand most of what he said, but he knew that the woman wanted to take her nest, and Peter was trying to stop her. He was protecting her.

  Once the woman left, Peter knocked on the door again. He talked more. Anna knew what he wanted: for her to open the door and go home with him. Everything in her screamed at the thought. But he didn’t try to force her. He only tried to protect her. He was a good, sweet boy.

  Still, she pressed herself against the door in case he tried to come in. Because Bryce stood behind her. Ropy muscles bulged in his long neck and arms as he waited for Peter to enter. Anna glared at him, and Bryce glared back.

  She’d beaten him, buried him and turned him. Spaceman Bryce had invaded her lair, but instead of killing him, she’d brought him into the fold. Yet there he stood, threatening her son, knowingly defying her wishes.

  Eventually, Peter left. Anna noticed the others, then. They peered out of tunnels with wide-eyes, or sat restlessly on piles. But it wasn’t Peter they feared. They sensed the jockeying for position. They wanted to know who their leader was. They could only settle into their roles if they knew the roles of others, especially those at the top.

  “He’s trouble. We take him tonight,” Bryce said. He brushed past Anna, bent down and picked up the business card.

  Victor said, “He has one in him who would rule.”

  Victor was right. Anna could smell it on Bryce, that he wanted control. Anna thought that maybe Bryce expected an argument. He didn’t seem to expect, that when she drew her hand from the pile she leaned against, it would contain the broken leg of an end table, or that she would crack him across the temple with it, because he barely moved to avoid it.

  Anna brought it down on him again and again until it splintered and she crouched over Bryce’s battered body with a jagged wooden dagger in her hands. She brought it high, preparing to plunge it into him when electric shocks went through her brain. She froze, but didn’t relent.

  “Please, Mom. Not yet,” Victor said.

  Bryce gazed up at Anna, and she wanted to end the light in his eyes. Behind them, she could see a mind that worked too much, that was working even as she had him pinned and helpless, about to end him.

  “You’re still queen,” Victor said, “and he is not yet ready. Once he is ripe, you can split him open over a new nest.”

  “Fine.” She tossed the sharp plug of wood aside.

  The others eased, though she knew they would have been even more at ease if either she or Bryce had killed the other.

  “You
should rest,” she said to Bryce. His face was mashed and bloody, and still he scrutinized her with those bright eyes. If they wouldn’t let her extinguish those eyes, she at least wanted him out of sight, and so she dug a hole and dragged him into it. He didn’t struggle, but only watched as she buried him.

  She sat upon the pile and looked over the others.

  “This is my nest. Mine!”

  They scraped low. The boy, the one who had tried to bury her, approached her with a package of bologna extended far out before him, his face nearly scraping the heap.

  That was how it should be.

  She took the offering and ate.

  CHAPTER 18

  It had been a long time since Pete had visited the place where Victor had died. When he was a child, he had gone to the creek often. He went to ask Victor’s forgiveness, over and over. Later, he went in times when he felt like he needed his older brother’s advice. It was morbid, to visit the place where he’d died, but Peter felt that the veil between himself in the world of the living and Victor in Heaven was thinnest there.

  But as time went on, as Pete got more responsibilities, both with the farm and his growing family, he did what he had once found impossible. He stopped thinking about Victor so much. He hadn’t visited the spot in some time. Years.

  As he left his mother’s front porch, he knew that he needed help. So he turned to his older brother. He went to the creek.

  Though dry, the shaded valley of the creek was much cooler than the plains around it. Peter tipped his ball cap forward and scooped the sweat back from his forehead, and it didn’t instantly bead up again, there beneath the trees.

  He approached the pile of rocks, and immediately ghosts surrounded him. He was a child again, helpless and yet to blame for everything.

  Pete put his hands on the top slab. It was always unusually cool. He ran his fingers over the striations on the side, into the pits and ridges. He sat on the sloped bank and leaned against the rocks, and closed his eyes.