Spit and Die

by Jon Athan

Micah leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on the table. He said, “So, let's set a few things straight.” He stared at Christopher and said, “You were right. I met your other friends and I know where they are.”

  “I knew it,” Christopher enthusiastically said. He patted Dylan's shoulder and said, “Aim your gun at him and don't let him move. I'll find something to tie him down and–”

  “But I didn't harm them,” Micah interrupted. “Three young adults—two women and one man—flagged me down right outside of town. They told me a story about some kidnapping. I believed them. I mean, I had no reason not to believe 'em, right? Anyway, I started to investigate. We went back to their cars—the cars I asked you to tow, Dylan—and I found drugs. I found lots and lots of drugs.”

  Dylan glanced over at Christopher and said, “Well, I'm sorry about this unannounced visit, sheriff. He didn't tell me they were a bunch of junkies.”

  Christopher said, “He's lying.”

  Disregarding Dylan's apology and Christopher's accusation, Micah said, “So, your friends are safe, young man. I have them detoxing in a jail cell in town. I think you should be with them, too. You seem a bit... delusional.”

  “Stop it,” Christopher snapped. “You're a damn liar. I'm not on drugs, James wasn't on drugs, Carlos wasn't on drugs... This happened because you and that monster attacked us. Now, stop fucking with me. Where is Kiara? Is... Is she still alive?”

  “Are you saying you didn't have marijuana in your vehicle? Are you saying you didn't smoke and drink last night?”

  “We did, but–”

  “Exactly. Your friends told me all about it. You had a few drinks, you smoked some weed, then you slept in your cars. Some of your friends slept in a tent, but they 'disappeared' before sunrise. That's how it happened, right? If you ask me, that story sounds just a bit too convenient. Something's afoot, but I don't think you're on the right trail.”

  An eerie silence befell the room. Micah and Christopher glared at each other. Micah fought to stop himself from smirking, acting as if he were actually telling the truth. He couldn't help but think about Kiara, who rested on the metal workbench in the neighboring room. Meanwhile, Christopher struggled to stop himself from throwing a tantrum—flipping the table and breaking the dishes. Dylan glanced at the sheriff, then at Christopher, caught in the middle of the argument.

  Daisy stood in the archway, surprised by the silence. She smiled at the men, then she started setting the silverware on the table.

  Micah leaned back in his seat and said, “Dylan, you were never good at reading people, so you made a mistake. I reckon this young man and his friends showed up in town to cause trouble. We've had outsiders like him before and, if their stay ain't short, it usually doesn't end well. I want to get rid of them. This isn't a town for junkies or dealers.”

  Christopher said, “I'm not a junkie. Why are you doing this?”

  Micah continued, “I'm not opening 'Pandora's box.' If I don't get rid of this trash, I'd be making a statement, and that statement would say: Cartels welcome, come bend us over and fuck us in the ass. I'm not having that. This is a wholesome town and I plan on keeping it that way.”

  Christopher shook his head, baffled by the sheriff's speech. The look of astonishment on his face said: what the hell are you talking about?

  Dylan sighed, then he said, “You're right, sheriff. I think I might have made a mistake. I can still stay for dinner, right?”

  Christopher blankly stared at the table as the men laughed at Dylan's humorous question. They spoke about Christopher's wild tale and Daisy's juicy meats. They didn't seem bothered by the allegations of murder. As far as they were concerned, the story was just part of a drug addict's bizarre rambling.

  Christopher's eyes widened. He thought about his first escape from the Wakefield house, retracing his steps in his mind. He remembered the abandoned housing development, the pasture, and the fields.

  The fields.

  “The heads,” he whispered. He banged his fist on the table and said, “There are dead bodies in the fields.”

  Dylan furrowed his brow and asked, “Are you kidding me, boy?”

  “I'm serious. When that 'woman' chased me, I ran through the fields on the right side of the house. I jumped over two rotting heads out there. People were buried from the neck-down in the fields.”

  Micah said, “That's just downright insane. You probably saw a scarecrow or something.”

  “You and I both know there are no scarecrows out there. Those were human heads in your field.”

  Dylan said, “Stop messing around. It's over. Your friends are at the station, safe and sound. I'll take you to 'em after dinner. Now drop this nonsense before–”

  “I can show them to you,” Christopher interrupted. “They're near the center of that dried field. Their skin was... black and gray. Their eyeballs were already missing. They had... They had maggots all over them. They're out there. As soon as you see 'em, you'll know this bastard is lying.”

  Dylan stared at Christopher with narrowed eyes. He was surprised by the young man's determination. The story was outlandish, but it caught his attention.

  Dylan glanced over at the sheriff and asked, “Do you mind if we walk through your field for a minute? Just to calm him down?”

  Micah furrowed his brow and tilted his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He looked confused, surprised, and insulted. He was the sheriff of the small town, so he expected everyone to trust his word. The tow driver challenged him—and he challenged him in his own damn house.

  Micah asked, “What is this really about? I mean, what are you really doing here, Dylan? Why are you involved with this drug-peddler?”

  Dylan responded, “Well, um... Like I said, this man came out of the pasture and he told me about what happened. He... He offered me some money in exchange for my assistance.”

  “You're not a sheriff, right? You've never been deputized, have you? You're not a private investigator, either, are you?”

  “No, I'm not, but–”

  “Then what kind of game do you think you're playing here? Jesus Christ, Dylan, don't you get paid enough already? Hmm? Look at yourself. Really, boy, take a moment and look at yourself. You're out here playing sheriff while you're working with a possible drug dealer for crying out loud.”

  “I didn't know that when I agreed to help him. If you told me those cars belonged to drug dealers, I would've shot him dead right there on the side of the road. Besides... I needed the money. You know my daughter is getting older, Wakefield. I'm trying to save up a little cash to get her out of this small town. I want her to see the world. I wish I could keep her here forever, but she needs to spread her wings, you know? That's all there is to it.”

  Micah dug his fingers into his hair, frustrated. He glanced into the kitchen through the neighboring archway. He could hear his wife cooking and humming. He thought about his desolate house and his small town, he thought about Dylan and his daughter. Truth be told, it frightened him knowing the town would be emptier as the younger generation departed.

  The sheriff said, “My father put everything into this town for people like you, your wife, and your daughter... and you want to send her away? You ungrateful piece of shit.”

  Dylan raised his hands and said, “Let's just calm down now. I was just saying: I want her to travel a little. She can always come back. It's not like I'm leaving.”

  Micah gritted his teeth and nodded, trying his best to bottle his anger. He said, “Okay, fine. I get it. I understand. We'll talk about it later. I think dinner is almost ready. Let's have supper, then I'll show you around the property.”

  “Let's see it now,” Christopher demanded.

  Dylan shook his head and said, “No, the sheriff's right. If we go out there now, you'll have to shower before you eat. We don't–”

  Dylan stopped and glanced up at the ceiling. Micah and Christopher followed his lead. Faint screaming emerged from the second floor. They couldn't identify the words, the scr
eaming was hoarse and indistinct, but they knew it was coming from a man. The sheriff was the only known man living at the Wakefield house, though.

  As he stared at the ceiling, Christopher whispered, “Carlos? Lucas?”

  “I forgot about that bastard,” Micah murmured under his breath.

  Dylan asked, “What the hell is going on up there? Who is–”

  As he turned towards the sheriff, Dylan found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. Time slowed to a crawl around him. The screaming upstairs was muffled and distorted. He felt each bead of sweat trickling down his brow. His life flashed before his very eyes. Memories of his young daughter dominated his mind. He thought: when was the last time I told her I loved her?

  Before he could utter a word, Micah pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the house. At point-blank range, the bullet struck the right side of Dylan's forehead and exited through the back of his head—a through-and-through shot. The entrance wound was small while the exit wound was wide. Dark-red blood and pink brains exploded out of the back of his head, splattering on Christopher's face.

  Dylan's head fell back over the top of the backrest, blood spilling from the gaping hole on his head. The blood formed a small puddle under his seat. Plumes of steam rose from the entrance wound, undulating skyward. His dead body involuntarily twitched every other second. His right eye was flooded with blood, causing bloody tears to stream down his cheek.

  Christopher screamed at the top of his lungs. He was disoriented by the loud gunshot. The ringing in his ears was unbearable. He felt a chunk of the tow driver's squishy brain sliding across his cheek, too. He retched and coughed.

  He cried, “You–You're crazy. Oh, shit, you actually killed him...”

  He glanced over at the kitchen archway, then at the door to his right. Escape, he thought, I have to get the hell out of here. He stood from his seat and stumbled towards the door. Micah stood from his seat. Like an experienced gunslinger, a modern-day cowboy, he quickly aimed his weapon and fired at his guest.

  Christopher yelped and tumbled to the floor as the bullet struck his kneecap. He turned onto his back and grabbed his knee. His jeans grew heavier as the blood soaked into the denim. He tightly squeezed his kneecap with both hands, trying to stop the excessive bleeding. The sight of his own blood made him nauseous.

  As the sheriff approached, Christopher stammered, “Pl–Pl–Please don't kill me.”

  Micah walked over his bloodied guest. He said, “I'm not going to kill you. I want you to witness my transformation. I'll have your leg bandaged before supper. Okay?” Christopher stared at Micah with a raised brow, tears welling in his eyes. The sheriff smiled and said, “Now, let me give you a natural sleeping aid.”

  He stomped on Christopher's head, his heel cap hitting his brow. The back of Christopher's head collided with the floorboards. He was knocked unconscious.

  Micah glanced over at the archway and said, “Daisy, wrap this young man's leg. He's not going anywhere.” He walked into the hallway and peeked into the basement. He shouted, “Esther! Bring that girl up here! I want you to start moving our guests to the dining room. It's almost time for supper.”

  As he marched up the stairs, Micah muttered to himself about the situation—nosy bastards, made a mess in my dining room and wasted my ammunition. He walked down the hall upstairs and approached the last room to his right.

  As soon as the door swung open, Lucas shouted, “You sick fuck! What did you do?! Who did you shoot?! Tell me!”

  Micah leaned on the doorway and smirked as he stared into the dark bedroom. Towards the center of the room, Lucas lay on a queen-sized bed. His wrists and ankles were handcuffed to the bedposts. The wound on his forehead, caused by the rolling pin, was bandaged. The blood and the bump were obvious, though.

  The sheriff said, “You have a big mouth. A big mouth on a little man... I didn't want to hurt you, but I have to teach you a lesson.”

  He stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Supper

  “Wake up. Please, wake up,” Kiara softly said, trying to keep her voice down. “Chris, Nina, Lucas... Oh, God, you have to wake up. Don't leave me alone. I'm begging you.”

  Nina gasped as she awoke. She coughed as she nearly choked on the saliva filling her throat. Her head slumped forward, drool dripped from the side of her trembling mouth and landed on her bare thigh. She blinked erratically as she stared down at herself, as if she were struggling to comprehend the situation. It's real, she thought, or is it a dream or a hallucination?

  She remembered consuming the LSD, so she questioned everything. She couldn't even trust herself. She was seated at one end of the dining table—and she was tied to the heavy chair. Her wrists, legs, torso, and thighs were strapped down to the chair with durable rope. The blood on her left leg made her whimper. She could barely feel her mangled leg, the pain diminished thanks to the LSD, but she still remembered the torture.

  Nina's breathing intensified as she looked at her arms. She still noticed bizarre patterns on the rope around her wrists. She spotted distorted faces in everything. The patterns frightened her for an inexplicable reason. The world around her felt illusory. The walls appeared to be dripping around her, wood melting like steel. For a moment, she believed she was moved into an oven. She feared she was being cooked alive.

  She whispered, “Am I... Am I really melting?”

  “Nina, you're awake,” Kiara enthusiastically said.

  Nina's eyes widened as she looked up. Like herself, the other guests were tied to their chairs. Christopher sat to her right, barely conscious. Kiara sat to her boyfriend's right, visibly baffled and terrified. Lucas sat to Nina's left, his head slumped down. He wasn't awake, but he wasn't dead, either. The tow driver, brains and blood still oozing from the back of his head, sat beside Lucas.

  Nina stuttered, “Wha–What the... What hap–happened? Are we... What's going on?”

  Kiara hopped in her seat, but she could barely move. She stared down at her right hand. Her hand was split down the middle. The drug helped with the pain, but she still felt the stinging sensation in her hand. The skin around her wound also tingled.

  Teary-eyed, she said, “I don't even know what's happening. I just woke up here. They... They drugged me. I don't feel right. I think I'm tripping or... or... or I don't know. He said something about LSD. He gave you the same, did–didn't he?”

  Nina nodded.

  As he stared down at his poorly-bandaged leg, Christopher said, “Calm down. Just... Just calm down. We'll get out of this”

  Kiara cried, “Chris! I was so worried about you, baby. I thought you were–”

  “Don't say it. I'm... I'm okay. Nothing else is going to happen to us. I'll find a way to get you out of here, I promise.”

  Micah entered the room through the kitchen archway. He smiled as he proudly looked over the table. The table was neatly set. Two candelabras with three candles each illuminated the table. Dusty lamps attached to the walls brightened the rest of the room with a mustard-yellow glow. Aside from his bloodied guests, the sight was beautiful.

  The sheriff sat down at the end of the table, directly across from Nina. He smiled and nodded at his guests as he tucked a napkin into his collar—a makeshift bib.

  Daisy pushed a cart into the dining room. A tall stockpot sat atop the cart. One-by-one, she filled their bowls with hot stew. They couldn't identify the blood-red liquid or the chunks of meat. After serving all of the guests, the housewife sat down beside her husband.

  As Daisy reached for her napkin, Micah asked, “What are you doing? You have to feed our guests. They can't eat all tied up like that. At least give 'em a bite. We'd just be wasting all this good food if we didn't feed 'em.”

  Daisy nodded and stood from her seat. She dunked a spoon into Kiara's bowl, chasing the floating meat with the eating utensil. She scooped up a chunk of meat. The red stew dripped from the spoon.

  As she held her ha
nd under the spoon, Daisy said, “This is still a little hot, but it's good. Just eat it, okay? Please, don't make this harder for us.”

  Kiara stared at Daisy, then she glanced at her boyfriend, then she stared back at the spoon. She hoped Christopher would break free and stop them, but it didn't happen. Comply or die—she figured she didn't really have any other options. She opened her mouth and accepted the food. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she tightly closed her eyes.

  The spicy stew tasted familiar—broth, typical broth. The meat was tender and succulent, too. Truth be told, the meal wasn't bad. If she had tried it at a restaurant, she would have felt compelled to leave a good review.

  Micah slurped the stew and meat off of his spoon as he watched his wife. Daisy moved on to Christopher. She lifted a spoonful of stew from his bowl, then she led the spoon to his mouth. Christopher sucked his lips inward and turned away from her. He refused to eat the meal.

  In a soft tone, like a mother talking to her newborn baby, Daisy said, “Please don't fight it. The night is almost over. Eat it so things don't get outta hand.”

  Christopher clenched his jaw and glared at the housewife. She lived with a psychopath, she helped the sheriff capture and torture people, so he felt like striking her. He saw a glimmer of kindness in her eyes, though. He decided to trust her. Kiara had already consumed the food anyway. He opened his mouth and took a bite.

  Daisy strolled to the other end of the table. She caressed Nina's brow, pushing her stray hair away from her forehead, then she started feeding her.

  While Daisy fed her, Micah glanced over at Dylan's dead body and said, “You really loved my wife's cooking, didn't you? You should have stayed in your lane, boy, you should have minded your own business.” He chuckled as he scooped a piece of meat out of his bowl. He held his spoon over Dylan's lips and said, “Eat it. Eat it, you damn traitor.”

  Standing behind Lucas, Daisy asked, “Should I feed this one, too?”

  “Well, you served him, didn't you? You might as well feed him. No point in wasting good food. No point...”