The Trail Page 22

  “Where did you go, Susan? Why did you leave me?”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t leave you. I just ran when we were attacked.”

  “You ran away from me.”

  “No I didn’t. I just ran. It was dark. I couldn’t find anyone.”

  “Why didn’t you call my name?”

  “Call your name?” Susan repeated. “I didn’t want to make any noise. I didn’t want to get caught.”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  Susan looked at him in disbelief. “Where’s Jack? Jack’s dead, Scott! Jack’s dead. He was killed last night in the tent. Stabbed to death. Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you go back to the camping spot?”

  Susan watched Scott’s face as he digested the information. She couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. She never had an easy time reading Scott, and now, after his murderous transformation, her ability to understand her husband was even more diminished.

  “Where’d you find the kid?” Scott asked, poking his gun again in the direction of Alex.

  “Down the trail. Look, Scott, can you please put that gun down?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Scott, this is Alex,” Susan said.

  Scott nodded, still holding the gun. Alex ground his boot in the dirt.

  “Alex’s friend was killed down the trail. Near the lean-to.”

  “The lean-to…” Scott said, hazily. “Yes, I remember the lean-to. Quite a nice bit of prose you penned in the logbook, Susan. You’re a real Shakespeare, huh? A little melodramatic though, no?”

  “You read the book?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you come find me? Why didn’t you help?”

  “I’m Susan Ginder, somebody is trying to kill me,” Scott mocked in a high-pitched voice. He laughed and laughed.

  “Scott, why didn’t you help me?”

  “Why didn’t you help me!” he screamed. “Why didn’t you fucking help me?”

  “Scott, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Jack. You liked Jack more than me. You always did. I think you hooked up with him in college. You always wanted to be with him. Why did you fuck with me, Susan? Why?”

  Susan stared at Scott, dumbfounded. Alex moved closer to Susan.

  Scott turned the gun back on Susan and said, “Who did you love more, Jack or me?”

  “Scott, don’t.”

  “Who did you love more, Jack or me?”

  “Don’t!”

  “Answer me Susan, or I swear to God I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  “Don’t.”

  Scott placed the gun against Susan’s head.

  “Jack or me?”

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Crack—

  Alex smashed the gun out of Scott’s hand, then scrambled to recover the weapon. Scott lunged for the gun, then the two men rolled on the ground. Scott pinned Alex. Alex stretched toward the weapon, his fingers brushing against the steel. Scott drove a knee into Alex’s groin, causing Alex to yelp with pain.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Susan. Tears streaked her face. Her whole body trembled. She exhaled and dove for the gun. Scott turned his attention to his wife. He swung a fist and grazed the top of her head. Despite the near miss, Susan’s head snapped back with the force of the blow. Her head flashed with pain. Now she was on the ground too, groping for the gun. She reached it before the other two, and sprang to her feet, holding the pistol like a flag above her head. She fired a shot into the late afternoon sky. Alex and Scott froze.

  “Stop fighting!” she screamed. “Everyone stop fighting!”

  The two men sat on the ground breathing heavily. Susan looked down at them. Not men. Boys, really. Alex was fresh out of college. And Scott, despite his sadistic transformation, still betrayed a flash of his former self when the sun caught his face at certain angles. Soft Scott. Sensitive Scott. She wondered about his earlier question. Scott or Jack? Who did she love? It was Jack, obviously. She felt Jack in her soul. But there was something about Scott. Some reason that they were together. His bravery. His powerful personality. His confidence. His ability to make decisions and not look back. His leadership. All positive traits. Traits that were now mutating into deadly qualities.

  “Scott, I’m making the decisions from now on. You hear me?” She pointed the pistol at him. “Give me the bullets.”

  Scott dug into his backpack, pulled out two boxes of Kim’s ammunition, and handed them to his wife.

  “Okay, listen,” Susan continued. “Martin Levy is out there. He killed Kim. He killed Jack. He killed Alex’s friend not too long ago, and now he’s probably looking for us. In fact, he’s probably watching us right now.” Susan glanced around the woods. The shadows under the trees grew heavy. A cool breeze shook the leaves.

  “He’s in the woods somewhere, which means we have to get back to the car, but avoid using the trail. Now how to we do that? Any suggestions?”

  Scott stared at the ground. Susan could not tell if he would cooperate, or try to kill her the first chance he got. Have to keep the gun on him the whole way, she thought.

  “There’s the lake,” Alex said quietly.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, the lake extends about a quarter mile north. There’s a dock not too far from here. There used to be a couple of rowboats tied up. If we could take a boat, we could row across the lake, and pick up the trail way over there on the other side.” Alex gestured across the water. “And hopefully that maniac will be stuck on this side of the lake, and not give us any problems.”

  Susan considered the suggestion. She was tempted to ask Scott what he thought. She reminded herself that it was over with Scott. She was her own woman. This would be the first decision of many decisions that she would make on her own. It felt good.

  “Yes. We’ll do the lake. Let’s get a boat.”

  They got up and starting hiking south towards the dock. Scott walked ahead while Susan pointed the gun at his back.

  In a few minutes they found the dock. Two rickety rowboats bobbed in the water. Tiny waves lapped against the sides of the vessels. Susan studied the two boats, determined both of equal quality, and ordered the men aboard the one.

  “Scott, you row.”

  Scott settled into the boat and grabbed the oars. Alex untied the boat and pushed them away from the dock. Susan held the gun on Scott.

  He started to row.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  “Fucking woods. Fucking goddamn woods,” Sheriff Adams muttered in the mid- afternoon light. A thicket of thorns tore at his clothes. I swear to God I will never come out here again!

  His face was crusted over with dried blood. His body ached. He was unsure of the day, the time, or even if he was alive. He recalled the events of the night. He remembered stumbling and searching. He remembered the dungeon under the church. The rivers of blood. The stainless steel vats. He remembered the priest. The sick fucking priest. He remembered Bryson. Something wrong about Officer Bryson. He couldn’t be trusted. But why? And the tent. Was it last night? The demon in the red shirt, Martin Levy. Coming out of the night air to attack those college kids. Martin got the one kid in the tent with a knife. He remembered that his flashlight illuminated the blade plunging into the tent clean, and emerging drenched with fresh blood. The poor son-of-a-bitch probably didn’t even know what was happening.

  The night was foggy, frantic, all wrong. The one college guy, Scott, wouldn’t let him have the gun. So he stood there, half expecting the ambush, with nothing. Nothing but his pecker. And a flashlight. The gun reported a few shots in the dark, but there was no way of knowing who’d been hit and who survived. He guessed he could have stuck around and helped, but everyone scattered. Besides, he wouldn’t have risked his life for Scott. He would have for the blonde, though. Susan. She seemed alright. A real nice smile and a good girl. Reminded him a bit of Nicole.

  Adams hiked up the alternate trail until it segued into the main path
. He walked cautiously, glancing from side to side with every step. Now that he was on the main trail he felt both safer and much more vulnerable to attack. As he hiked, wind rustled through the woods.

  The sheriff looked up in the tree line. “Thank Christ,” he said, and immediately felt more relaxed. Above the branches a telephone wire snaked across the sky. A moment later he noticed a clearing and an old dirt road. And then a wooden sign: “Tucker’s Store—1 mile.” Yup, that little hick store, Tucker’s, was just up ahead. He could call for back up, get a beer, and begin his promise to never enter the woods again.

  Before he reached the store, he passed a sign that denoted the exact halfway point of the trail. He thought of those crazy fuckers that hiked the whole thing. Took ’em damn near half a year. No thanks. Half an hour is too long in this hellhole.

  The store was now in plain view. The screen door slapped impotently against the door frame. A generator hummed from somewhere.

  He stepped on the porch and the wood groaned. Under the porch rocker a dead bird decomposed. Maggots hollowed out the bird’s belly.

  Adams had been called to Tucker’s three times before. Once for petty theft. Once for attempted arson. Once for vandalism—some freak had scrawled pentagrams all over the door. Although he could not recall a time when the store felt as unwelcoming as right now. Instinct stopped him from opening the door right away. He reached for his gun and felt the smooth leather of his empty holster. He went for his heavy flashlight and found nothing there. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Flies swarmed his face.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  The flies burrowed into the sheriff’s nostrils, his ears, his mouth. “Akkkkk!” He raked his hands across his face and dislodged the black swarm. “Shit! Shit!”

  The flies left momentarily, only to return threefold, with suffocating intensity. And the sting! The flies were biting!

  Adams spun, temporarily lost his balance, and teetered sideways into the one aisle of Tucker’s store. Candy bars spilled to the floor. The flies dispersed. He looked up and saw Joe Tucker standing behind the counter, smiling in bemusement.

  “Damn flies, huh?” Joe said. He wore a grease-stained orange hunter’s cap. A wispy, unkempt beard sprouted from his craggy face.

  “Jesus Christ,” Adams sputtered. “What the hell is wrong with this place?”

  “They don’t bother me none. Guess when you live out here you get used to it.” Joe leaned over the counter and fixed a gaze on Sheriff Adams. “But you don’t live out here, do ya?”

  Adams returned the stare. “No, I don’t. Thank God.” Tucker was a strange old coot, even by Crenson standards. An unhelpful son-of-a-bitch, too. When Adams had investigated the vandalism incidents, Tucker had refused to answer any questions. He had said, “I don’t know who called the cops. People should mind their own damn business. You folks don’t understand these woods.”

  That was about the extent of the investigation. No leads. No motives. No nothing. Just the old Crenson stonewall. He’d run into this a lot. Most of his career. The old-school Crenson residents were resentful of authority and bound by a code of silence. At first, he had thought the people were motivated by a general mistrust of the law, but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps the silent residents were all part of this crazy Crenson cult. Father Glick’s bunch. Adams shivered.

  Tucker looked him over. “Damn, boy, you get in a fight with a bear?”

  Adams looked down at his bloody shirt and shredded pants. “Had some problems out there in the woods.”

  “I’ll say,” Joe Tucker replied with a laugh. He reached under the counter and brought out a clear glass jar filled with brown liquid. He popped the lid off a tin of chewing tobacco, thumbed around, and stuffed a plug in his mouth. He worked the snuff into a moist lather, and then spit into the jar. Saliva strands hung like spiderwebs from his mouth.

  Tucker ran a shirt sleeve across his face and asked, “Are you here to buy something, or just to nose around?”

  “I need to use your phone.”

  “Sure officer, it’s right behind the counter here.” Tucker smiled. Black tobacco shreds stuck in his teeth.

  Adams kept his eyes on Tucker as he walked around to the other side of the counter. He looked down and saw fifty or sixty jars filled with tobacco juice. He picked up the beige phone with a rotary dial and held it to his ear. Dead.

  “No dial tone.”

  Tucker laughed. “‘Course there’s no dial tone. Thing’s been dead for months.” He jabbed another plug of tobacco in his mouth.

  “Well then, I need to borrow your truck.”

  “My truck? What you want that for?”

  “I need to get back to the police station. I need to report something.”

  “That bear attack?” Tucker wheezed in laughter.

  “Give me your truck.”

  “You got a license and registration?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Tucker! Give me your goddamn truck!”

  “My, my, officer. Well, I don’t like your tone.” Tucker spat a tremendous wad of tobacco juice in the jar.

  “Where are the keys?” Adams ripped open the cash register and started rifling though the drawer. “Where the hell are the keys?”

  “Now just hold on there, officer. Just hold on.”

  That’s when Adams saw it. A storage door in the far corner of the store stood open a crack.

  A slender white arm poked out, covered with flies.

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Martin watched from the shore. The three outsiders entered the boat. It rocked and swayed. They were crossing the lake, getting smaller in the light of the setting sun. The blonde girl held a gun on Scott. Martin remembered Scott. Remembered him from a long time ago.

  He wasn’t concerned that they would get away. He could intercept them later on the trail, near the parking lot. Or maybe wait in their car, in the back, and emerge when the vehicle started moving. Martin recalled with pleasure how he had killed a young couple a few weeks ago using this very same method.

  He stood next to the dock and stared at the single remaining boat. He would not go in the other boat. Would not chase them. He could track and stalk people all over the woods, but water frightened him. Made him think of his father. Made him remember his head being shoved into the backyard oil drum filled with stagnant rainwater. Martin would remain under for what felt like hours, until his lungs screamed and his mind started to slip away. Only then would his father release his hand and let the young boy breathe. Martin could only cough a few staccato pleas of stop before his head crashed into the water again. And again.

  No, he would not enter the water now. The closest he came to the lake was by the bank at night, when he slipped human and animal carcasses into the inky black pool. He’d been disposing bodies for a while now, helping the priest out. Killing the non-believers. Sometimes the believers, too. His little secret kills that always got the priest mad. He couldn’t help himself. He killed some for the priest’s ceremonies. Others, his mistakes, he dumped in the lake.

  How did the priest repay him? By yelling at him. By claiming his kills were sloppy. Sloppy? The old man didn’t know about killing. Didn’t know about plunging a knife between someone’s ribcage until the tip of the blade lodged into the spine. Didn’t know about choking someone until you could hear the cartilage in the neck crumble and give. The priest had it easy, in a way. If Martin didn’t enjoy killing so much, he would begin to think that the priest was taking advantage of him.

  Martin held his hunting knife up to the sun and tilted it to reflect light across the lake toward the boat. At first, the people in the boat just stared back at him. Then a disorganized shuffle occurred, cries and wails of chaos. The boat rocked madly. They appeared to be arguing over the gun. A few seconds later a blast echoed across the water and a bullet smashed into a tree behind him. Martin laughed, pointed his knife at the boat, and slipped back into the woods.

  He thought about his latest killing, the hiker
in the lean-to. Martin’s secret kill. He would go back and keep this one for himself. He’d strung the hiker’s body up with chains and split his belly wide open. Martin smiled, remembering how the hiker’s intestines splattered to the floor.

  In death, the facial features of victims are surprisingly similar. The skin grows sickly pale. Sweat mats down the hair. The eyes flutter and roll back. The mouth goes slack.

  The mouth is always the last to die.

  Martin decided to hike through the woods and intercept the three on the trail. He wasn’t sure how he would kill them yet, but that was part of the thrill. He found joy in improvising, in finding new ways to perform his craft. When the time came, his instincts would take over.