The Thing In The Mine

by J. R. Ayers

  “Had a little bad luck. Ya’ll headed to Stephenson are you?”

  “Goin’ by there. We’re on the way to Beckley. You needin’ a ride or somethin’?” The Thing wagged Charlie’s head and forced him to smile.

  “It’d be good if you could drop me by my place in Stephenson. I’d sure appreciate it.”

  The man looked at the woman, who shrugged and said, “He sure looks like he needs help. I suppose it’ll be alright.”

  “Hop on in then,” the man said, steering the van off the road.

  Charlie and the Thing that now wanted to be called his friend, took note of the old Dodge as Charlie made his way toward to the side door. The van was covered in road grime and rock dust, and the right rear wheel well was cancerous from salt corrosion. The rear quarter panel sported a large, irregular dent suggesting that someone had made a poor attempt at body work. When haystack hair turned off the engine, the dual exhaust pipes belched out a cloud of black, oily smoke.

  Charlie eased into the bench seat behind the woman and closed the door. Four pairs of eyes, two blue, two green as new clover, regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and trepidation. Feeling the mounting tension, the woman broke the silence by asking, “Were you in a car accident?” The Thing was on a roll, it had been coaching Charlie all morning and they were prepared for the question.

  “No ma’am. I was workin’ on the tipple conveyor back yonder at the mine and a guide pulley broke and the pieces got me. Got me real good actually.”

  “What the hell you doin’ walkin’ around out here for?” bad hair guy asked. The woman, displeased at the man’s tone, shot him a withering look.

  “Leave him alone, Frank,” she scolded. “Can’t you tell he’s hurt?” Then to Charlie, “Why don’t you let us take you to the emergency room in Beckley. That ole’ clinic in Stephenson ain’t worth a hoot when it comes to dealin’ with trauma.” Frank nodded and peered at Charlie through unruly locks of yellow hair.

  “Better listen to her,” he said. “Kathy’s a nurse’s aide. She knows all about that trauma shit.”

  “I ain’t no nurse’s aide, neither,” the woman said obviously embarrassed. “Well, not yet anyway. I. . .I’m takin’ classes. Just two days a week though. I ain’t no—”

  “Bull, she’s a regular Florence Nightingale,” Frank said grinning. He was missing a couple of front teeth, which resulted in a prominent lisp when he spoke.

  “You say you work at the mine?” Kathy asked. “Did you walk all the way down here?” Charlie nodded and wiped a drop of blood from the tip of his nose with a grimy finger.

  “Yeah. My wife dropped me off at work this mornin’. Couldn’t get no cell signal up there. Land line’s intermittent too. So I figured I’d walk down here to the highway to get some help.”

  Frank had turned in his seat and was eyeing Charlie with lingering skepticism. “You do look pretty messed up,” he said. “Better let Kathy take a look at those cuts. There’s a first aid kit there in the glove box. You can decide if you want us to take you to Beckley after you’re patched up a bit.”

  Kathy removed a first aid kit from the glove box and proceeded to treat and dress the worst of Charlie’s wounds. While she worked, Frank talked nonstop about his unhappiness with being laid off from a tractor supply store in Oak Hill. “That damn new Home Depot down at the mall has just about put ever local store out of business,” he complained. “Ten years. Ten years I worked at that store. That puny unemployment check just ain’t gettin’ it done. I probably shouldn’t be sayin’ this, you being a stranger and all, but the only reason we happened to be out on the highway today was because we was over in Mullins at Kathy’s mother’s house to ask her for a loan. I tell you, times is tough. Hell, I just hope we have enough gas to get Kathy, the girl and me back to Beckley. You wouldn’t happen to have a couple of bucks for gas, would you? I mean you are ridin’ along, ain’t you?” Kathy looked up from her first aid work, her eyes flashing.

  “Frank!”

  “Well, damn, Kath, I was just wonderin’.”

  “Will you please stop being so rude to mister, uh, mister?”

  “Charlie,” Charlie’s Friend said. “And I’d be happy to kick in on gas. What was that you were sayin’ about a girl?”

  “That would be April,” Kathy said, securing a gauze bandage on Charlie forearm with a butterfly clip. “She’s in the back there, sleepin’, the ole’ sleepy head.”

  “No I’m not, I’m awake,” said a voice from the rear compartment. The Friend swiveled Charlie’s head so he could better see the blond, blue-eyed girl looking at him with eyes still puffy with interrupted sleep. “Gee, what happened to you?” she asked, not even trying to hide her disgust. From the front seat came a resounding,

  “April, manners!”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” Charlie said quickly. The Friend Thing was intrigued. It couldn’t take Charlie’s eyes off the girl. She looked about sixteen, maybe a little younger, but Charlie could tell by the shape of her hips when she rose up her knees that she already had the body of a grown woman.

  With frankness prevalent in young people, she smiled and said, “I’m April, what’s your name?” Her mother moved to scold her for being so brash, but Charlie waved her off.

  “Ya’ll can just call me Charlie.”

  “Is that your name?” the girl asked.

  “Yeah, one of em’,” Charlie said, holding the girl’s steady gaze.

  If it had just been Charlie Waddell staring into those captivating eyes, he would have surely died from embarrassment. But, it wasn’t Charlie returning the provocative glance. The Friend Thing was beside itself with contentment. As far as it was concerned, Charlie’s comfort level was of no consequence.

  We’re gonna have a ball with this one!

  April slid over the seat and plopped down next to Charlie. He couldn’t help but notice her long tanned legs. When she bent over to pull on her sandals, his eyes dropped to her breasts straining against the thin material of the Wild-Wonderful-West Virginia tee shirt she wore.

  She sure is a looker, the Charlie Thing thought. And mom’s not bad either. Hell, even ole’ dumb ass Frank’s lookin’ good right about now.

  Better make your move, Charlie. And don’t fuck it up.

  Finished with her impromptu first aid, the woman began placing items back in the first aid kit. When she picked up a pair of scissors, the Charlie-Friend-Thing grabbed her hand and bent her wrist backward until she cried out and dropped the scissors on the car seat. Charlie snatched them up and pressed the sharp end against the woman’s neck hard enough to draw a drop of blood. Startled by his wife’s cry of pain, Frank twisted around in his seat. “Be cool, Frank,” Charlie said calmly. “Make a move and I’ll cut her throat. That goes for you too young lady.” Frank stuttered and whistled through missing teeth.

  “Whoa now, don’t you hurt her. What the hell do you want anyway?”

  “I want you to drive. Come on let’s go. Get this piece of shit movin’.”

  Frank felt he had no choice. So he drove, consumed with panic, convinced that it was his fault that this was happening. Shouldn’t have stopped, he thought. Should have kept goin’. Maybe called the hospital or a cop or something. My fault, damn it, my fault.

  The highway leveled out into a short stretch of relatively straight two-lane. As the van topped a small rise, Charlie and his handler saw a dirt road on the left angling away from the highway toward the mountains. “Pull off on that road, Frank.” When Frank hesitated, Charlie pressed the tip of the scissors into Kathy’s neck until she yelped with pain.

  “Okay, okay, I’m turnin’. Just . . . stop doin’ that.”

  “Hurry Frank, my arm’s gettin’ tired.”

  The road wound through thick foothill underbrush, crossed a small creek and took a steep turn up the mountain about two miles from the highway. “This’ll do Frank,” Charlie said. “Pull over there by that deadfall.”

  Frank steered the van to a spot near a downed hickory tree
and turned off the engine. “Okay, what do you want?” he asked. The Charlie Thing chuckled and squeezed April’s knee with his free hand.

  “Pussy, Frankie ole boy, I want some pussy.”

  Frank threw himself across the captain’s seat and threw a punch at Charlie’s face. The blow missed, and Charlie threw a punch of his own which landed on the tip of Frank’s nose. The force of the blow stunned Frank and he never saw the follow-up punch that hit him between the eyes knocking him unconscious. Kathy squirmed away from the scissors and Charlie slammed a fist into her face, cracking several teeth and shredding her lower lip. She slumped in her seat, moaning, her mouth dripping bloody saliva. “Looks like it’s just you and me kid,” Charlie said, grabbing April by the hair.

  The girl put up a decent fight, but by the time Charlie had punched her in the head a few times and dragged her to the deadfall, she was in no shape to mount further resistance. Her denim shorts and panties posed no great obstacle to the Charlie Thing. He did have to struggle with her bra for a moment, but after dislocating her shoulder in an effort to strip her, the frilly garment slid off her arm quite easily. Charlie used the bra straps to tie April’s hands to an overhanging tree limb. “Now, let’s see to mommy and daddy,” the Thing said giggling.

  Kathy barely resisted as Charlie stripped off her blouse and tied her hands behind her back. Frank was beginning to come around, but Charlie slammed a balled fist into the side of his head and he faded back out. Then he pushed him to the floorboard, worked the belt from around his waist and tied his hands to the steering wheel.

  After plucking the keys from the ignition, Charlie pulled Kathy from the passenger seat and dragged her to the deadfall where her daughter stood as naked as the day she was born.

  “Which one first?” the Thing said, its eyes moving from April back to her mother.

  Sometime during the assault, the Friend- Thing’s voice had changed. No longer was there any semblance of the personality known as Charlie Waddell. It was just the Thing now, and when it suited it, the Friend. Charlie was nothing more than a bag of meat and bones, a vessel, a convenient conveyance of transportation. But he does have one other use, the Thing thought as it stripped off Charlie’s overalls.

  April attempted to scream when the Charlie Thing grabbed her by the waist and thrust her legs around his hips, but he head butted her face and she collapsed against his weight. She began to whimper as he entered her. “Ride her hard, Charlie!” the Thing sniggered. “Ride her good, but save some for mommy.”

  It was over quickly. Although the Thing effervesced with strength and power, the physical body formerly know as Charlie Waddell, did have its limits. He waited five minutes then raped Kathy as she lay on the ground next to her shattered daughter. When it was finally satisfied, the Thing ordered Charlie to clean up his mess. Use the rock, Charlie, yeah that big one there, it said with a giggle.

  Kathy cried out in anguish when Charlie slammed the jagged rock against the side of April’s head. Blood and brain matter cascaded down the girl’s body and fell in hot, steaming drops on her mother’s face. Then the Thing turned its attention to Kathy.

  Her screams ended abruptly when the rock smashed into the flesh and bone just above her eyebrows. Her last glimpse of life on planet earth was the grinning face of an utterly insane Charlie Waddell hovering over her.

  Trembling from head to toe, the Charlie-Thing limped over to the van and threw open the driver side door. Frank looked up at him with eyes full of fear and confusion. He attempted to speak, but Charlie jammed a foot against his throat, choking off both his words and his breath. “It’s your turn now, Frankie boy, let’s get them pants off,” the Charlie-Friend-Thing said as it reached for Frank’s zipper.

  Chapter Five

  An hour later, Charlie Waddell was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. After raping and killing Frank and his family, he took the Dodge van and headed east toward Stephenson. At times he was all over the road. The only thing that kept him from crashing head on into another vehicle was the fact that the Thing in his brain kept him alert enough to stay on his side of the lane marker, though the tiny part of him that was still human desperately wanted to drive over the mountain and put an end to the horror consuming him.

  He rolled into the Stephenson city limits just after noon and headed straight for the little frame house on Bosco Street he shared with his wife, Rachel. Swerving into the driveway, knocking down his mailbox in the process, he parked kitty-cornered in the front yard and stumbled out of the van, leaving the engine running.

  Leaking blood and sweat, he went around to the back of the house and entered through the kitchen door. Rachel was standing in front of the stove frying bacon in a cast iron skillet. She turned around when Charlie slammed the door behind him. “You’re late,” she said frowning.

  “Pussy,” Charlie said.

  “What did you say?”

  “I want some pussy. Get you clothes off.” Rachel’s mouth fell open and she dropped the dish towel she’d been holding.

  “Charlie Waddell, what in the world is wrong with you!” Charlie crossed the room much quicker than she thought possible and grabbed her by the throat. She attempted to pull away, but his fingers dug deeper into her neck and she stopped struggling. The smell of frying bacon assailed Charlie’s nostrils and he forgot about Rachel for the moment. Using his free hand, he reached into the frying pan, fished out a couple of strips of the breakfast meat and thrust them into his mouth. Rachel could almost hear the flesh of his soft palate sizzling from the heat of the hot grease. Charlie spied a tea kettle on a back burner and he snatched it up and poured hot water down his throat until it gurgled from his mouth and spilled down the front of his overalls.

  All the while, Rachel was trying to scream. The pressure on her throat was too great however, and she soon found herself beginning to lose consciousness.

  Charlie finished the bacon and then dragged Rachel to a small dinette table near the back door. He threw her across the table, lifted her dress and ripped off her underwear. She barely had time to cry out before he dropped his overalls and entered her from behind. She tried to pull away from him once, but he hit her in the head with a sugar bowl until it broke and scattered sugar and shards of floral-patterned porcelain all over the table top. She ceased to struggle then and he went about raping her in a decidedly vicious manner.

  When he was finished, he went to the refrigerator and ate everything he could find—bologna, a packet of Swiss cheese, raw bacon, a half dozen eggs, (shells and all), five peaches, a head of lettuce, two containers of yogurt and a bottle of Thousand Island salad dressing that had expired three months earlier. He washed it all down with a half a gallon of orange juice and two tall boy Schlitz beers.

  Rachel began to stir on the table and Charlie leapt upon her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “That was an okay fuck, but you gotta try harder,” he said burping up remnants of bologna and beer. Rachel’s eyes grew wide with fear and confusion. Blood seeped from the cuts on her head and dripped on the front of her torn dress.

  “Charlie, wh. . . what’s happening to you? She stammered. “Why are you doin’ this?”

  “No talkin’,” Charlie snapped. “Just lay back and spread them legs.”

  She made a run for it then, but Charlie caught her by the kitchen sink. He tackled her from behind and they both went crashing to the floor. Terrified, Rachel fought as hard as she could, clawing at his face, scratching the skin above his eyes, ripping and tearing in an effort to free herself from what she could only conclude as a raving mad man.

  In the end, it was a fruitless effort, though. As Charlie held her at bay with his left hand, his right found a large carving knife in the sink and he thrust it into the center of her heart, killing her instantly.

  Leaving Rachel dead on the floor, Charlie staggered to his feet and headed for a bedroom down the hall. He kept his guns there; a 30.06 deer rifle, a Smith &Wesson .357 magnum and a Mossberg twelve gauge pump shot gun loaded with .00 buck
shot. He ignored the rifle, but he tucked the pistol into a front pocket and removed the shotgun from the gun case along with two boxes of .00 shells and a few extra speed loaders for the magnum.

  “Change your clothes, first, Charlie,” the Thing said. “You look like shit warmed over. Might scare the folks looking like that.”

  Ever obedient, Charlie dug around in a closet until he found a pair of jeans and a cotton checked shirt. He stripped off his overalls and used a pillow case from the bed to wipe some of the blood and grime from his arms and face. He dressed quickly, not bothering to tuck in his shirt and slipped on a pair of Nike running shoes. “That’ll do,” the Thing said, looking at Charlie in the vanity mirror. “Now let’s go hunting.”

  Homer Day was Charlie’s first target. He owned one of the gas stations on Main Street, the one where you could get two free scratch off tickets with every fill up. He was in a service bay washing down the concrete floor with a pressure hose when Charlie strode up behind him and put a .357 round through his left ear. Blood, brain matter and shattered bone mingled with oily waste water and swirled in crimson circles down a drain in the floor.

  Charlie’s next stop was Bill’s Barbershop on Walnut Avenue. Arliss Branston, Bill’s newly hired barber, died with a surprised grin on his face and his favorite clippers in his hand. A shotgun blast ended the life of the only customer in the shop, an eighty-two year old black man named Cyrus Pinkman who’d just come in for a quick trim around the ears.

  Moving on, Charlie gunned down a woman on the sidewalk in front of Millie’s dress shop and shot two kids off their bikes near the park on Gladsby Drive.

  By this time, the police had been alerted and a fire fight between Charlie and a young deputy named Roy Barnes ensued just past the park. Charlie was shot twice, but the Thing was able to steady his aim long enough to drop the deputy with a shot to the throat, thus abruptly ending the frantic, wild-west type shootout.