The Trail

by Brian Francis

  He put the gun down next to his right leg and continued rowing. Branches and mud flats began grinding against the bottom of the boat with increased frequency. The shore was close now. He could easily swim there. Scott looked up and caught Alex staring at him, and then glancing back at the gun. Alex smiled quickly, nervously, and peered down at the floor of the boat.

  Scott knew that Alex didn’t trust him with the gun. He had noticed how Alex swallowed hard and looked the other way when Susan gave him the weapon. He wondered why Susan had changed her mind. Did I win her back with that high school crew talk? Or maybe it was the way Alex fucked up his shot at Martin Levy? Susan knew that Scott was a good shot. Whatever the case, he held the gun now, and with it, all the cards.

  “Steer the boat into that cove,” Alex said.

  “Aye, aye captain,” Scott said. He found it amusing to let Alex believe that he had power in this situation. Alex had lost every ounce of command when Susan turned over the gun. It was a fucked-up thing seeing Kim in the water, her beautiful body reduced to sickly yellow flesh. What a waste.

  He expertly guided the boat into the tranquil cove. He used the oars sparingly now, allowing the natural flow of the water to pull him ashore. He grabbed the two boxes of bullets and tucked the gun under his belt. The barrel jutted into his thigh.

  “Everyone be quiet,” Susan instructed. “He could be in the woods waiting for us.”

  Scott studied the forest. The trees nearest the shore were discernible, but the woods beyond were blurred by darkness.

  Martin’s not waiting, Scott thought.

  Scott ran the bow of the boat aground. Alex lost his balance and stumbled forward. Scott smiled and exited the boat. He helped Susan disembark, taking care to hold her hand warmly. He did not help Alex.

  “Feels weird to walk again,” Susan whispered.

  “Sea legs,” Scott replied.

  “Do you think he followed us?”

  “Naa. He’s probably long gone.” Scott knew Martin hadn’t followed them, but he also knew that Martin was not long gone, either. Martin tracked from the perimeter, with no haste. No wasted motions. These were Martin’s woods.

  They walked along, Scott in the lead, followed by Susan and Alex. Scott took them off the trail, through a thicket of overgrown rhododendrons. He held branches back so Susan could pass unmolested. She said “thanks” each time. Scott could feel her trust returning.

  Scott switched on his small flashlight. True, the beam made them easier to detect, but without it, they’d stumble around in the darkness all night. Susan held Scott’s arm, and tucked behind him. Alex walked a few feet back, desperately following the amorphous blob of light ahead.

  “There it is!” Scott said.

  “What?” Susan asked.

  “The beads. Look.” Scott shone his flashlight to the left, and two white reflectors, like dog’s eyes at night, refracted the beam. “It’s the beads of light. The reflective night markers. We’ve reached the trail.” Scott could feel Susan stiffen when he said the trail.

  Scott was sure that Martin would not attack Alex or Susan yet. That was not his style. After all, Scott had known Martin for years.

  Chapter One Hundred Five

  The cultists tramped through the woods by threes and fives in search of Sheriff Adams. Some were familiar with the forest, like Dale Benson, the butcher at Crenson’s Market. He traversed the midnight paths with ease. Others struggled in the darkness, like Gale Thomas, an RN at Briersville Memorial. She held her hands out in front of her face, for fear of cobwebs, or something worse. They wore their ceremonial black robes and hoods. The manhunt had been an unexpected turn, but they relished the thought of pleasing Father Glick.

  They would find Sheriff Adams and kill him.

  * * * *

  Hank Stenton drove his gray Nissan Sentra down Willow Way, a narrow one-lane road that cut directly through the woods south of Crenson. His wife Barbara slept quietly in the passenger seat. He listened to a sports talk radio program discussing the Pittsburg Steelers. He didn’t really care about the Steelers, but he didn’t feel like listening to music, either, and all the other talk radio stations near Crenson were religious shows. He’d listened to some “Jesus talk”, as he called it, a few miles back, just to scoff at the small-minded locals.

  Hank was forty-five, proudly liberal, and an outspoken religious skeptic. The radio station didn’t amuse him. Instead, it scared the shit out him. The host had a deep, angry voice. He threatened to “strike down” anyone who stood in the way of the Second Coming. If that weren’t bad enough, just as Hank entered the woods the radio host began speaking in tongues, twisted gibberish that sounded more demonic than angelic.

  Hank had switched to the sports talk station, but he couldn’t stop thinking about that warped, hateful talk. He wished his wife would wake up, if only to have someone else to joke with about the absurdity of this place.

  The car’s headlights sliced through the dark. Hank’s heart nearly stopped as the beams fell upon people. People in the woods. People are walking around in the woods. He slowed the car and turned down the radio. He squinted and focused. His wife murmured and repositioned herself in the seat.

  Jesus Christ! What the hell are people doing out here in the middle of the night? He looked down at the car clock. 1:42. What the hell? Two people stood ahead to his left. Suddenly, they were on both sides of him. A lone figure stood in the center of the road. Hank’s headlights splashed across the figure. Black robe. Head down, obscured by a black hood. The person looked up and started walking toward the car. Hank checked the rearview mirror. More black figures approached from behind.

  His heart thumped. He felt dizzy. His wife moved again in her seat and asked lazily, “Why are we stopped, Hank? Are we there?”

  Three people on the back bumper now. Rocking the car and laughing. A face pressed against the side window. A boy with short cropped blond hair and dead eyes scraped a knife against the windshield.

  Hank scrambled for the power locks and bumped the dash panel—the radio exploded to life—the demonic chanting of the preacher filled the car. Hank’s wife awoke, swiveled her head from side to side, and screamed, “Oh, my God? Who are they? What’s happening?”

  Hank slammed his foot on the accelerator. The two figures rolled off the back bumper and sprawled onto the road. The boy with the knife spun backwards and fell onto the asphalt. The Nissan Sentra slammed into the black robed figure still standing in the middle of the road. The body flipped over the hood, smashed into the windshield, and rolled off the roof.

  Hank drove on, not looking back.

  Chapter One Hundred Six

  “I just played with her,” Joe Tucker repeated.

  Jesus Christ, Adams thought. He’s been abusing the corpse of that dead girl. His own little sex doll.

  Adams always fended off the criticism from his friends in larger cities about the backwoods nature of Crenson. As much as the sheriff despised his own town, he always felt compelled to defend its honor when Crenson came up in conversation. Crenson was like a drunken uncle that Adams knew was no good, but that he still stuck up for because he was family.

  This new revelation about the abuse of a corpse repulsed Adams beyond any possible redemption. A twisted hillbilly freak like Joe Tucker was indefensible. He was everything that was wrong with small towns. He fit every movie cliché. And yet, he was real. Standing right in front of Sheriff Adams with a half full jar of tobacco spit and a dead sex slave in the cooler. Christ! Tucker was an embarrassment to every rural citizen, to every human being.

  Adams again felt for his gun and touched the empty holster. Maybe now is not the best time to come on strong, he thought. Tucker’s got a shitload of guns in here somewhere. I better not make him feel trapped.

  “Well, if you found the girl, Joe, then it’s not your fault. You’re not in any trouble.”

  Adams watched as the muscles in Tucker’s face relaxed. A slight grin formed. “Yeah, well, like I said, sheriff, I didn�
��t cause the girl no harm. I just found her like that. Dead as a doorknob.”

  “Okay, Joe. I’ll note that in my report. You notice any other strange things going on around here?”

  Tucker concentrated for a minute. “Well, the markers. Someone messed with the markers again.”

  “I know. Who do you think would do that?”

  “Damned if I know. Probably the same fella who wrote all over my door.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Hello. You open?”

  Sheriff Adams watched as a young hiker, about twenty-two, with shaggy blond hair, entered Tucker’s store. He threw his backpack on the floor, wiped his brow with a brown bandanna, and looked up at Sheriff Adams and Joe Tucker. “Look, I know it’s late, but I saw your light on. You open?”

  “Umm…yeah,” Tucker said. “We’re open. What do ya need?”

  The hiker turned to Adams. “What happened to you?” He studied the scattered merchandise on the floor. “What happened here?”

  “We had a little trouble,” Adams said. “But I’m alright. Everything’s alright.” He walked behind the counter, brushed the arm back with his foot, and shouldered the door closed.

  “What can I get ya?” Joe Tucker repeated.

  “A burger. Soda. Trail mix. And two bungee cords if you have them.”

  “We sure do,” Tucker said. “Got ’em right over here.” He shuffled to the side wall and removed two blue cords from a hook.

  Adams studied Tucker. What a phony. The quick transformation into Mister Businessman. If only the hiker knew about Tucker’s dead girlfriend in the closet.

  “Where ya coming from?” Joe asked.

  “Maine. Hiking south. This Pennsylvania section is a bitch.”

  “Yup, pretty rocky.”

  “My boots are almost worn through.”

  “Well, you’re halfway done. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “You see anything exciting?”

  “Some great waterfalls in New York State. Saw a couple bears. They just ran off. Some deer. Couple snakes. Oh yeah—about ten minutes ago I saw some guy walking around with a big-ass knife.”

  Chapter One Hundred Seven

  Father Glick watched as the congregation filed out of the church on their hunt for Sheriff Adams. Glick rarely ventured into the woods anymore, let alone at night. He liked the woods for two reasons: seclusion and secrecy. Everything else he could do without.

  The desert. That’s what he loved. He had moved to the West Coast in the 1960’s, like every other free spirit looking for a change. He fell in with a desert commune, in the barren dunes of Death Valley. The weather agreed with him. The pitiless sun. The howl of the wind across the sand. Glick loved the counter-culture lifestyle—drugs and sex in particular.

  He’d often take mescaline with ten or fifteen people. The narcotic trips initially started as spiritual quests, but with Glick as ringleader, the events always devolved into carnal orgies. He developed a taste for multiple partners at once.

  Young boys came later.

  He read everything he could about the Manson murders. His admiration for Charles Manson became so pronounced that the commune asked him to leave. On his way out, he killed the stray dogs that roamed the camp. He splattered canine blood everywhere, then packed his few belongings and set off east, into the most punishing and remote section of the desert.

  He befriended a Berkeley dropout named Charles Evans, and the two spent long nights under the California stars discussing murder and the macabre. Evans was a theology student who left Berkeley because he felt the University’s teachings were too passive and forgiving. Through Evans, Glick became fascinated with religious vengeance and retribution. He studied torture devices, and made a few rough sketches of his own inventions. He ingested more LSD, and would often trip for weeks at a time, often unsure of the line between reality and insanity.

  He emerged from the desert with a long black beard and quick, hard eyes. Glick had visually morphed into a conscious conglomeration of all the prophets he’d studied. The young spiritualist’s transformation was complete.

  He hitchhiked to San Francisco, but grew disillusioned when his prophecies went largely unheard, or drowned in the din of the era. He decided he’d rather be a big fish in a small sea, and so he planned his return to Crenson.

  By that time, the Jonestown Massacre had occurred, and Glick was thrilled by the details. He immediately wanted to implement mass manipulation on Crenson.

  He had the knowledge, and now, he had the vision. Glick started his trip back East.

  Meanwhile, Crenson had fallen into peril. The Pennsylvania coal boom had gone bust, and towns around Crenson shriveled and died. Whole towns simply stopped. Cranes rusted in mid-motion, church signs remained unchanged. Viewing these depleted coal mine towns was not unlike the footage of Hiroshima after the atomic bomb. Nothing moved.

  Crenson was spared the destruction of strip mining because of its location. The forest south of the town encompassed the Appalachian Trail, and environmentalists fought for and won its preservation. The results were mixed.

  Crenson survived, but became extremely isolated. As neighboring towns folded, Crenson residents turned inward. Turned to religion, to alcohol, to sex.

  When the self appointed “Father” Glick arrived one spring morning, Crenson turned to the devil.

  Chapter One Hundred Eight

  “Ouch,” Susan yelped.

  “What?”

  “My ankle. I think I twisted it.” She put out a hand and leaned on Scott for support.

  She had been hiking with Alex and Scott in the dark and following the iridescent glow of the reflective markers on the trail. At first, the night made her feel completely blind, but gradually, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and the moon served as a point of light and hope. When her ankle twisted she didn’t know what she felt more: pain or surprise.

  “I don’t know what happened. I must have stepped on something.”

  “Lemme see,” said Scott, crouching down next to her and gently rubbing the side of her leg. “Does it hurt here?”

  “No.”

  “Here?”

  Susan restrained a yell. She nodded. She wanted to show Scott that she was brave.

  “Just sprained,” Scott said. “Try to stand and lean on me.”

  She rose to her feet without putting any weight on the injury. Her ankle throbbed in waves.

  “Okay, just put your arm around my shoulder.”

  “I’ll get your other side,” Alex said.

  They shambled down the trail like a single wounded animal.

  Scott was tender, Susan thought. He’s back. My husband’s back. She allowed herself to envision the future with Scott again, a luxury she hadn’t considered since the first murder. Maybe the madness of the trip had plunged Scott into a form of temporary insanity. I guess no one can be held accountable for their actions on this trip. A memory of sex with Jack entered her mind. No one.

  “What the hell?” Alex said. “It’s a circle.”

  Susan looked up.

  “See.” He shone his flashlight around and Susan watched as the trail reflectors winked back the light, forming a perfect circle.

  “Why the hell would they do that?” Alex asked.

  “Why would he do it?” Scott replied.

  “Who?”

  “The guy with the knife. Martin.”

  “You think he did this?”

  “Sure. He’s been messing with the trail markers since before we got here. He always messes with the markers.”

  Susan and Alex peered at Scott.

  Susan whispered, “What do you mean he always messes with the markers? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” Scott said abruptly. “I’m just saying that the trail has been messed up since we got here.”

  Susan considered Scott’s answer, but something about it left her uncomfortable.

  “Susan,”
Scott blurted. “I need to talk to you in private.”

  “Okay.” She turned to Alex. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

  Scott led her to a dead stump in the center of the circle. “Sit down.”

  Susan sat on the stump.