The Trail

by Brian Francis

  He waved his hand and his face creased into a smile. One of the campers, the one who looked like a lawyer’s son, walked toward him. Keeping the flashlight beam steady on Adams’ face, the kid yanked out a gun, aimed it at the sheriff’s head, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  The shot screamed past the sheriff’s right ear and smashed into the trunk of an oak tree.

  “Don’t shoot!” Adams yelled. “Jesus! Don’t shoot.”

  Susan watched in horror as Scott raised the pistol again. Jack struck his arm and sent the gun spiraling into the darkness. Sparks of moonlight flashed off the metal.

  “Scott! He’s not the killer.”

  Scott flared the flashlight into the sheriff’s face again.

  “Well, look who it is…” Scott drawled. “You’re right. It’s that cop from the parking lot.”

  Adams shifted uncomfortably.

  “How’s it going, officer?” Scott continued. “Any luck catching the killer? We’re having a great camping trip, by the way. Thanks for your concern the other day.”

  Jack broke in. “Scott. Knock it off.”

  Adams wiped blood and sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his soiled shirt. “Look, folks, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time.”

  “What happened to your face?” Susan asked.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Look, officer—our friend is dead.”

  “I know. I saw her body on the trail. A shame. Pretty girl.”

  “Can you get us out of here?” Susan pleaded.

  “In the daytime, maybe. In the night, no way. I hate these fucking woods.”

  Silence descended upon the group as stars began pixelating the sky.

  At least it’s not going to rain, Susan thought. She didn’t quite trust the sheriff. She hadn’t liked him in the parking lot the other day, and she didn’t like him now. His smug authority. His condescending attitude.

  Susan didn’t like the comment about Kim being a pretty girl, either. She’s dead! Doesn’t he get that? Why is he acting so calm? What about his torn clothes and bloody face?

  She wanted more answers than “it’s a long story”. If they weren’t hiking out of here tonight, she figured they had time to tell long stories.

  Still, the presence of the law gave her some comfort. Maybe Sheriff Adams wasn’t being forthcoming, but at least he wasn’t actively trying to kill them. Which is more than she could say for the maniac in the woods. Maybe even more than she could say for her husband.

  “So we’ll camp here tonight and try to hike out first thing in the morning,” Scott said, throwing down the bundled tent with a crash. The poles rattled in the dark. “I’ll take first watch with officer…what’s your name?”

  “That’s sheriff. Sheriff Adams.”

  “With Sheriff Adams.”

  Susan and Jack held the flashlights overhead, while Scott and the sheriff assembled the tent in a clearing away from the trail.

  “Lemme ask you something,” the sheriff said, as he attached the roof cover to the dome-shaped structure. “What happened to your other tent? I know you had two tents and a shitload of beer. Where’s the other tent?”

  Susan looked at Jack and Scott and they all started to laugh.

  “What?” asked the sheriff.

  “It accidentally burned up,” Jack admitted, and now the three began laughing hysterically. It felt good. Susan hadn’t laughed in so long that her lips cracked and her cheeks tingled. She laughed and laughed until the others stopped. One by one they examined her hysteria. She laughed and cried and laughed again, her shoulders heaving up and down in quick bursts.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” Susan said. “Kim told me that the man in the red shirt burned down the tent.”

  “The man in the red shirt’s name is Martin Levy,” Sheriff Adams said. Scott looked away. “He probably did burn your tent,” the sheriff added. “And kill your friend.”

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  “Martin Levy,” Jack said. He peered up at the moon and repeated the name, letting the syllables out slowly. Now that the killer had a name, Jack felt sick.

  He’s real. He’s in the woods. Kim did see him. All of the pieces to Jack’s nightmarish puzzle interlocked in his mind. I didn’t burn down the tent. It was Martin Levy. I didn’t get us lost. Martin Levy changed the trail markers.

  The only thing Jack could not blame on Martin Levy was the dead hiker. That murder was on Jack, and Jack alone.

  “Who’s Martin Levy?” Susan asked. Her wild convulsions had subsided to tiny spasms.

  “Who’s Martin Levy?” Sheriff Adams repeated. “He’s the man in the red shirt.”

  “Yeah,” Susan said, exasperated. “But who is he?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Seems like all of your stories are long,” Susan said. “Why don’t you just tell it from the beginning?”

  “Alright,” the sheriff said. He sat down on the cold ground with a grunt. “It all started in Crenson.”

  “The town north of here?” Jack asked. “The one with the inbreeds?”

  “Jack,” Susan said.

  The sheriff smiled. “No, he’s right. Crenson is just north of here. And some of the stories about inbreeding are true. It started about fifty-years ago, when some unexplainable illness swept through the town. Some people thought the water supply was tainted. Others said the crops were poisonous. Who knows? Whatever the case, the illness was swift and fatal. Children died in the streets, ranting and foaming. Their bellies hard and distended. From the stories I’ve heard it was bad. Just brutal. For the children that lived, it was much worse.” The sheriff dug his heel in the ground as he spoke.

  “On the second night of the sickness, all the mothers in Crenson with kids still alive walked into their kids’ bedrooms and choked ‘em to death. Some sort of mutual psychic delusion.”

  “Why didn’t the men stop them?” Susan asked.

  “No one knows,” the sheriff said. “The men just sat there and watched. Crenson was a close-knit community at the time, and you folks don’t live out here—but death happens all the time in rural areas. The townspeople never acknowledged the murders. They blamed the water and the crops. And the devil.

  “It was around this time Father Glick was born.”

  “What about Martin Levy?” Jack interrupted.

  “I’m getting to him, son,” said the sheriff. “It’s all interconnected. Anyway, Glick was born skinny and sickly, the bastard child of a murdering mother. He studied Catholicism and they say he was an excellent student, and he probably was. But soon Glick started to show an interest in the darker side of religion. Sacrifices. Black masses. Blood rituals. All sorts of sick shit. Glick was a Catholic priest for a short time, but his obsession with the occult eventually got him booted.

  “He decided to erect his own church, and got some Crenson delinquents to build a small stone chapel near the trail, not too far from here. The first time I heard about the church was when I saw video surveillance of one of his black masses. Incest, sodomy, pedophiles. Just a complete nightmare. They went in to arrest him, but Glick was gone. The entire congregation just completely vanished.

  “And now it looks like Glick is back in business. I just saw him—that explains my bloody face. He’s set up shop in the old Crenson church. He’s got miles of tunnels running underneath the building. His congregation has tripled. Same disgusting mass, only now he’s added more blood and more sacrifices. Nice, huh? The people of Crenson are lapping it up.”

  “But who is Martin Levy?” Jack asked again.

  “Martin Levy is a mentally damaged inbreed that Glick uses as his killer. Levy has probably killed dozens of people in these woods…” Sheriff Adams trailed off, and then looked up at Jack. “Except for that hiker you killed.”

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  When Sheriff Adams finished his tale, Susan pulled her knees close to her chest. She hated the story, but found the parts about the dead and abused
children the most disturbing. Susan could not bear to think of children in pain. She clutched her belly and tried to imagine that everything the sheriff said was a lie. She pretended that Adams was just an ignorant rube trying to scare them with a ridiculous spook story. It’s all a lie, she thought. But then an image of Kim’s shattered skull flashed into her mind, and Susan knew that everything was true.

  “Let’s get a fire going,” said Scott, unusually subdued.

  Susan decided that if a power struggle occurred between Adams and her husband, she would side with the sheriff.

  “No, Scott. No fire,” Susan said. “I don’t want anyone to find us.”

  To Susan’s relief, Scott simply shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

  “Why don’t you get some sleep, lady?” Sheriff Adams said kindly. “You’re tired and nervous. A few hours of sleep would do you good.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Sure you can. You’d be surprised what the body can do. I’ve seen some pretty horrible things working this job—and I always sleep like a baby. You just have to learn to shut your brain off. Come on, we’ve got some hiking to do tomorrow. You gotta get your rest.”

  “I guess I could try. You’ll watch the tent?”

  Sheriff Adams looked around. “Sure, I’ll watch the tent. Scott, give me the gun. I’ll be your security guard.”

  “No,” Scott said flatly, clutching Kim’s gun to his chest. “I keep the gun.”

  Adams paused. “Okay, stand guard with me. We’ll let these two sleep for a while,” the sheriff said, gesturing toward Jack and Susan.

  Scott stared at Susan for a moment and then looked away. “That’s fine.”

  Susan and Jack crawled into the tent while Scott and Sheriff Adams stood outside. Scott held the gun. Adams held a flashlight.

  Susan tucked herself deep inside her sleeping bag and let the soft, warm flannel lining wrap around her body. It was silly, but she felt safer in the sleeping bag. My security blanket, she thought. Just one extra layer of protection against whatever’s out there in the woods. She listened to Jack’s steady breathing. He had the bag pulled up to his chin. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were open.

  Susan could hear distant murmuring between Scott and the sheriff. It sounded as though they had moved somewhat away from the tent.

  “He knows,” whispered Jack suddenly.

  “Who knows what?”

  “About the hiker I killed. The sheriff. He knows.”

  “Oh, Jack, he’s not going to say anything. Look, you were scared. We were all scared. None of us can be held accountable for what happened out here. You were just trying to protect us.”

  Susan felt a flash of déjà vu. For the second time in her life she was comforting a boy she loved. Comforting him because he accidentally killed someone.

  A boy I love? Am I losing it? Am I cracking up? What is happening?

  “Jack, it’s all going to be alright,” Susan said. “You were just trying to protect me. You we’re just trying to keep me safe.” Suddenly she leaned over, brushed the hair off Jack’s forehead, and kissed him.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Jack was shocked. This kiss was very different than the one in the woods they shared yesterday. Why is Susan doing this? he wondered, even as he ran his hands through her hair. Has all the bloodshed and madness driven her crazy? Or is it Scott? Are they done? And what does this mean for me?

  He tried to concentrate on her soft, warm kisses, the smoothness of her skin, but the questions kept running through his head. His racing thoughts reminded him of college nights on LSD. Long after everyone went to bed, Jack would remain awake in his room, staring at the ceiling, his visions a mixture of humor and hell. The worst part was he couldn’t shut his mind off. The sheriff had suggested that Susan shut off her mind, but for Jack, it was impossible. The thoughts never stopped.

  Why does she want me? Is she crying right now? It was difficult to see in the dark, but Jack thought he felt fresh tears on Susan’s face. Is she going mad?

  He kissed Susan hard and ran his fingers down her spine. She was so skinny, it felt like gliding a hand across piano keys. He suddenly realized that somewhere along the way, Susan had left her sleeping bag and slipped into his.

  What about Scott? Is he still right outside the tent with Sheriff Adams? Jack raised his head to listen for a moment. Their voices had moved off some distance.

  Jack hooked his thumbs around the waistband of Susan’s jeans, and pulled down, catching her panties as well. He felt her warm skin rub against him. He lifted her up, and kicked off his own jeans, never unlocking his lips from her mouth. She sat on him and rode—kissed his neck and rode—gently, lovingly, just like he’d always imagined she would one day.

  Despite the ecstasy, Jack’s mind refused to stop churning. Here it is, right now. I’m having sex with Susan Ginder. How long have I wanted this? How long have I imagined what sex with Susan would feel like? Taste like? Smell like? And now, here it is, and it’s better than all my fantasies.

  He wanted to be with her forever. Those crazy marriage dreams he had about Susan could all come true. He really did want to marry her. He really did want her to be his wife.

  With a final rocking pitch, Susan clenched upright, then fell forward onto his chest, breathing heavily in his ear. At the same time, Jack couldn’t hold back any longer. He bit his lip, trying not to alert Scott and Sheriff Adams.

  Susan whispered in his ear, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  That’s it, Jack thought. All of his dreams were coming true. When we get home from this disastrous trip, it will be Jack and Susan. In that simple exchange of words, the course of Jack’s life became completely clear: Jack and Susan.

  A knife sliced through the tent wall and pierced Jack’s side, just under the third rib.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Jack emitted a low groan. At first, Susan attributed the sound to orgasm. A few seconds later, when his breathing began to bubble red in his throat, she realized the truth.

  A knife. The killer was here. Oh, my God, Jack!

  Everything unfolded in slow motion. From outside the tent, Susan heard two thunderous gunshots. Sheriff Adams yelled something inaudible. The tent wall collapsed, and Susan felt the heft of a large body tumbling on top of her. In a matter of seconds, the body rolled and sprang forward. Susan heard heavy boots digging into the trail, running away.

  The gun exploded again. And again. Deafening blasts ripped through the black woods.

  “Jack!” Susan screamed, cradling his head and pulling him closer.

  The thud of the heavy boots returned, and a large hunting blade probed in and out of the tent walls. Susan rolled Jack into the center of the tent. The knife searched again and again for flesh. The blade probed deeper, stopping mere inches from Susan’s face. She could hear crazy flits of laughter from outside the walls.

  Deeper and faster. Deeper and faster. The knife came like a missile through the walls, slashing Susan’s right cheek, opening a cut so deep that the blood was immediate and everywhere. Moonlight seeped through the tent holes. Red poured from Susan’s face onto Jack’s. Jack groaned, his gaze flickering in and out of consciousness.

  Susan dropped down, held him, blood sluicing over their faces.

  If I’m going to die, let it be painless. And let it be now. With Jack. The one I always loved.

  More gunshots resounded through the valley. The knife froze, shook, and withdrew from the tent. Again the sound of boots thudding away. The walls of the tent were shredded. Moonlight poked through more and more holes. Susan curled around Jack, crying and shaking.

  Another gunshot. Far away. Susan relaxed slightly.

  She examined Jack’s face. His skin was gray, like the color of an old photograph. Sweat beaded his forehead. His eyes darted quickly from side-to-side, searching for something.

  “The man is gone,” Susan said. “He’s all gone.” She stroked Jack’s hair and pulled him closer.
/>
  Jack coughed and thick clots of blood exploded from his mouth. He stared at Susan again, the wild look of panic in his eyes. After some effort, he managed to sputter, “I’m going to die.”

  “No, you’re not going to die,” Susan said, although she realized now that he would. And soon. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Jack tried to speak but his words were drowned in his own blood. Susan bent down and put her ear to his quivering lips.