Promised Land

by Brandon Dean

  “Suffered? You’re the one who’s suffered? What about them?” Willard asks with his finger stretched out to point at something behind me.

  I turn to face my headstone again. It has company now.

  Seven other markers have joined mine to form a perfect line, each inscribed just as mine is. I look down the line and read the birth and death dates of everyone. Mom, Dad, Hazel, Beverly, Violet, Riley, and Emmett. Carved at the bottom of each are words that rip at my soul.

  Betrayed in the End

  “I’m not a traitor! It isn’t my fault!” I scream at Willard and Richter as I turn back to face them.

  “Isn’t it?” Richter asks.

  “Is that what you tell yourself? To sleep at night?” Willard interrupts with a maniacal chuckle. “You’re just as evil as we are,” he insists. “Was it not enough to kill my boys? You had to go off and kill your own, as well?”

  “I’m nothing like you!” I scream at them.

  Richter inches closer to me, nearly bumping against my chest. His eyes look down into mine. “Why are you here? Why did you not give up when I threw you into that hole?” he asks.

  I stand silent. I have no answer.

  “How many have to leave this earth for you to understand that there is no place for you?” he demands.

  “You’re a liar!” I shout.

  Richter leans forward and whispers into my ear, “Your existence is the worst thing that could have ever happened to them.”

  I press my hands to my eyes, a stream of tears flowing between my fingers. “Leave! Get out of my head!” I demand.

  “We’ll never leave,” Willard says. “We’re going to haunt you until you take your last breath. So. How’s it feel, little reaper?”

  Their laugher grows in intensity and volume, like the devil himself is cackling at my torment. I press my hands harder to my eyes as my knees weaken, my arms and legs go numb.

  And then, suddenly, the laughing stops. I drop my hands from my face to look ahead. Nothingness. A pitch-black, empty void. I look down at my hands and see that there’s blood everywhere, soaking me from my wrists to my fingertips. I turn to face my tombstone again. And in place of the grave markers are the lifeless bodies of those I love, carelessly tossed atop one another.

  “How does it feel, little reaper?” an unfamiliar voice whispers softly into my ear. “How does it feel?” it repeats, over and over and over again.

  “Their blood is on your hands,” another voice chimes in.

  The ground rattles, shakes, and eventually separates as my grave gapes open, moved by a supernatural, otherworldly force.

  “It’s time,” I mumble.

  “Yes . . . it’s time,” the serpent-like voices repeat in my ears.

  But I don’t want to go in that hole.

  “You can’t run forever, Clint,” the voices whisper.

  A force, a power greater than my own will to stay above ground, drags my feet closer to that hole. I try to fight back, but to no avail. I’ve accepted death’s warm embrace; I’ve accepted that my very existence is not only futile but has an everlasting, negative impact on the ones I tried to keep safe.

  My feet are at the edge of my plot, and I feel the weightlessness of my descent. It feels a lot deeper than six feet; it’s as if I’m going to be falling forever. And just like that, I stop and look up from the bottom of that hole. Six dark silhouettes stand above me, surrounding my grave, and I hear the high-pitched crying of a seventh off in the distance. Not a single one of the visible six are mourning, and I watch as they drive shovels into the dirt.

  They’re going to bury me, like I buried them.

  The first load of dirt cascades over me as some of the tainted soil finds its way into my eyes and mouth.

  “We hate you!” they chant, their individual voices ringing loud and clear.

  “We hate you!”

  “We hate you!”

  “We hate you!”

  Over and over again. More dirt falls onto me, and before I know it, it’s up to my ankles. Shovelful after shovelful, they won’t stop—not until they completely bury me in the earth.

  Thunder rips through the night sky, and torrents of rain fall from the heavens, drowning me in thick mud that threatens to swallow me. A flash of lightning illuminates the scene, but for only a split second. They’re decomposing, all of them, nothing more than reanimated corpses. Their skin and muscle hang loosely from their bones; maggots and larvae crawl over them like living flesh. Their rotting, blackened teeth are fastened loosely in diseased gums.

  “We hate you!”

  “We hate you!”

  “We hate you!”

  They continue to chant, growing louder and louder with each word.

  “They’re not real! They’re not real,” I whimper, trying to convince myself. “Please! Leave me! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please! Don’t!”

  The chanting goes on, never letting up, never showing any mercy.

  The mud is up to my neck now, filling the hole with increasing speed.

  “Stop! Please!” I scream.

  I scream . . .

  And scream . . .

  And scream until my ears ring, and then I scream some more.

  I close my eyes, breathe in until my lungs are full, and let out one more plea.

  Suddenly, I wake from my tortured sleep, springing upright in my cot and screaming. Cold sweat drenches my skin as it trickles its way down my chest and back. I’m panting as if I’ve been running, and crying uncontrollably.

  “Make it stop! Please, make it all stop!” I whimper.

  “Shh . . . it’s okay,” a kind voice says as a gentle hand rubs my forearm.

  “No . . . it can’t possibly be,” I murmur in disbelief, turning to face the voice that soothes me. “Mom? Is it you?” I can barely make out her features in the darkness.

  As my eyes adjust, I see that it really is her. Violet is asleep in her arms. “It’s me, baby . . . it’s me,” she says as she rubs her gentle hand across the side of my face, a sheen of tears in her eyes.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, completely ignoring the sharp, aching pain that fills my body, and wrap my arms around her in a tight embrace. “Please don’t hate me . . . please don’t hate me . . . I’m so sorry,” I sob.

  Mom places her hand on my back and begins to pat me gently. “It’s okay, Clint. I love you. We all do. It’s just a bad dream.”

  “I just try and try,” I cry into her shoulder, “but I don’t know what to do! I don’t know how to protect everyone, no matter how hard I try. You think you’re doing the right thing, and you end up losing someone. You decide to do the wrong thing, and you lose a piece of yourself! I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take it!”

  “Would any of them want to see you like this?” Mom asks. “Do you truly believe any of them blame you for what happened? Clint, this isn’t your fault. You never asked for this.”

  “Even if they don’t, I blame myself. There’s so much I should have done, but I didn’t know how . . . ,” I say hopelessly.

  “We’ll make it through this, Clint. Hazel needs you. Violet needs you . . . I need you. And no matter what, we aren’t giving up on one another.”

  “I’m just so happy you and Violet are safe,” I say.

  “Think of it this way: if you hadn’t warned us, we may not have been. You saved us, Clint,” she replies.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

  As I fall back asleep, I remind myself that I made a promise, and if nothing else, I intend to keep it. We have to make it through this.

  Chapter 22

  Rise and shine!” Murphy says.

  I open my eyes and yawn to see him extend a hand toward me. I grab it, and he helps pull me up into a seated position. “I’m going to give you t
he benefit of the doubt and trust you. You knew Emmett, so I’m going to let that vouch for you. But I’ll still be watching you.”

  “No apology, then, huh?” I ask drowsily.

  “Don’t push your luck,” he responds. “How are you holding up? Think you can walk?”

  “I don’t know. If I can, won’t be for too long,” I reply.

  Murphy nods. “All right. We’ll have a chair rolled in here to take you out to the truck.”

  “What’s your plan?” I ask.

  “Found a set of keys in the vehicle we took. Only one is a key for a vehicle. We’re hoping it was Richter’s personal set and that the others fit the doors of this place you’ve been talking about.”

  I nod. “Okay. And then what?”

  “I guess we’ll just hope that we get lucky enough to get in through the back without being seen and have a chance to see what we’re dealing with. Then, the plan is to fire away.”

  I shake my head. “There are too many innocent people in there. It’s going to get some of them killed.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do, kid? Ask them nicely to let everyone go? It’s the only option we got, with the walls being boarded up. Can’t see a thing through that.”

  I sigh. “Be careful. Please be careful.”

  Murphy nods. “We will. But best thing for you to do is lay low and let us handle it. I got a few guys coming along who know how to handle themselves. A couple of cops, a couple of angry old Marine vets. I feel good about our chances.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “You’ll be riding along in the front seat. You’ll be our eyes and help us spot the place,” Murphy says.

  “Okay . . . sure,” I reply nervously. I’m torn between emotions, anxious to finally free Hazel and end this nightmare, and fearful that things will go south. With my track record, I’m not all that optimistic that things will run smoothly.

  The doorknob turns, and the door slowly swings open. Four men wearing tattered, unwashed clothing walk into my room, all of them differing in age and physique. The two in front have many years on the two at the rear; they give the impression of being experienced and trained in all things war. The first is a larger man who has a hardened look in his eyes. The second wears the same expression. These must be the Marine vets Murphy mentioned, haunted by the memories of combat and tormented by the fact that it’s happening again on their turf. Most importantly, however, they look downright pissed and ready for a fight. These old dogs are looking for a reason to take back what’s theirs.

  The two men in the back—presumably the former cops—are much younger. Both seem to be in their late twenties, maybe early thirties. Both seem much less rough around the edges, as well, but what they may lack in experience, they make up for by being considerably younger and in better shape. Their faces are cocky and smug, their hair perfectly slicked back despite looking as though they just pulled themselves out of a manhole.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say to the quartet.

  No response from any of them, not the slightest acknowled- gement.

  Murphy laughs. “Don’t worry about them, kid. Just help us find the place, all right?” he says before turning his attention to the four men. “It’s okay. He’s on the same side we are. Don’t be too hard on him.”

  They nod, and the youngest of them leaves the room.

  “Look, kid,” Murphy says, turning back to me. “I realize the shit you’ve been through. I think maybe it’s time you get a break.”

  “It’s been time,” I reply with a slightly bitter laugh.

  I open my mouth to ask about my mom but decide against it. I’ll see her again soon, and she’s safe. The last thing I need is her finding out that I’m going to be in harm’s way again. I’ll tell her about this someday—maybe tomorrow, even. But right now, I need to rescue Hazel.

  “When’re we doing this?” I ask as the young man walks back in pushing a wheelchair.

  “Looks like now. You ready?” Murphy asks.

  “Born ready,” I reply.

  “Remember, I’ve got my eyes on you. Don’t try anything, and don’t try to be a badass. I find out you’re crooked, you’re done. You mess this up, I’ve got no promises for what will happen to you. Got it?”

  I nod. The wheelchair is rolled right up to my bedside, and I start to climb into it.

  “Need any help?” Murphy asks.

  “No. I got it,” I reply.

  Murphy stands behind me and wheels me out the door, following the other four men out of my room. I’m rolled out into a hallway and then into a nondescript lobby with multiple chairs and a dusty, old reception desk. As I’m pushed to the front door, I spot the “borrowed” transport truck sitting in the parking lot through the glass door.

  “This is it,” Murphy says. “If we pull this off, by nightfall we’ll all be free again. Are everyone’s weapons ready in the back of the truck like we agreed?”

  Two men nod; two say yes.

  “If anything happens to us—” the oldest begins.

  Murphy interrupts. “Stop. This isn’t anything you’ve never seen before. Gonna take a lot more than this to take you or any of us out.”

  The oldest man grins. “You always know what to say, Doc,” he says.

  I turn and look up at Murphy. “‘Doc’?” I ask curiously.

  “I’m a psychologist. Was a psychologist,” Murphy says, gesturing toward the oldest man. “Jack here is a patient of mine. A damn good one, too.”

  “Well, I have a damn good doctor,” Jack replies.

  “Clint,” Murphy says, looking at me, “I’d like to get to know you better, once we make it out. Think it’d do you some good. What do you think?”

  “Sounds great . . . Doc.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Murphy replies. “Everyone else in hiding?” he asks the group of men before me.

  “Yeah,” one of the younger men says. “I told them to come find the place we’ll be at in a couple of hours. We should be done by then, I figure. I guess they’re off somewhere else, keeping themselves occupied right now.”

  Murphy wheels me out the door and into the parking lot, and as we approach the truck, the four other men hop in the back. Murphy opens the passenger door and helps me into the cabin of the truck. The pain from the wound in my stomach makes me groan. “Are you good?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I grunt. “I’ll live.”

  I buckle myself in and lean back, struggling to find a position that provides some degree of comfort. The driver’s door opens, and Murphy hops in and inserts the keys in the ignition.

  “Hey,” he says to me, pausing.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Sorry about yesterday. Couldn’t take any chances, you know?”

  I nod. “I know. Trust me, I understand.”

  Murphy faces forward. “All right then,” he says, turning the key to start the engine. “Get ready, and stay low. It’s showtime.”

  As we drive down these vacant, dusty roads, I watch out for the route Richter took during our drive to the store. We pass the church after four or five minutes, the sight of it flooding me with haunting memories. Bodies are littered across the plot of land; blood paints the sides of the shacks and patches of grass.

  “What happened to the rest of them?” I ask.

  “The guards? We gave them a choice. Something that doesn’t come around too often, it seems. Either come willingly or go down fighting. Most of them chose door number one. The prisoners—what was left of them—got transported for medical care.” He pauses as we come to a stop sign. “Right or left?”

  I think for a moment before saying, “Right.” As we turn right, the memory of the long, straight road into Lucasville forces itself back into my mind. “It’s about ten minutes or so from here. Just keep going,” I say, looking out the window.r />
  “Are you sure?” Murphy asks.

  “Yes. What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?” I ask back.

  Murphy grabs a pistol, this time an American model, from a holster on his belt and hands it to me. I see that the chamber is loaded. “That answer your question?” he asks.

  I chuckle to myself. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Just because you have it doesn’t mean you need to use it. That’s just to defend yourself on the off chance you need to help us.”

  “Gee, that’s reassuring. Thanks.”

  “Welcome to Lucasville,” a rustic wooden sign in the distance says. Murphy notices it and praises me for my navigation.

  “It’s at the end of town,” I say. “Big grocery store, looks out of place. Yellow paint. Can’t miss it.”

  “You did well, kid. Thanks,” Murphy says.

  “I’m the one who should be thanking you,” I say. “You could’ve just gone on, but you decided to stick around and save them.”

  “Don’t thank me. Don’t need it. If I leave them behind, their blood is on my hands. We look out for one another. It’s what real Americans do.”

  Our surroundings come into focus, a tumbleweed town of barren roads and vacant buildings that echo with abandonment.

  “You didn’t lead us to a ghost town, did you?” Murphy jokes.

  “That’s why they picked this location, remember? Last place you’d expect.”

  “Crafty bastards,” Murphy mutters under his breath.

  I can see the peeling, cracked yellow letters of the grocery’s storefront in the distance. “That’s it,” I say.

  “Damn . . . you weren’t kidding. That’s the last place I’d expect,” Murphy replies.

  He brakes about forty feet away from the back of the store, pulling over to the side of the road. “Engine’s loud; best to take this on foot if we want to catch them off guard,” Murphy says.

  I nod and sink lower into the passenger seat, pistol in hand, preparing myself for any conflict.

  My eyes are barely peeking over the dash as Murphy asks, “What in the hell are you doing?” with a raised brow.

  “Trying not to get my head blown off, if that’s okay with you,” I reply.