slightest rustle in the snow. He was the primary predator in these woods and everything else simply existed to serve his needs.
From somewhere close by, an unseen deer crashed through the undergrowth as if it had suddenly sensed danger on this otherwise peaceful, winter morning. As if it somehow knew that blood would soon darken the forest floor and evil would roll across the landscape like a roiling fog.
“Let’s do this, Fat Man…. It’s time to play.”
Earl couldn’t help it. He’d had to stop and catch his breath for a moment, to give his lungs time to gulp down the cold air and refuel his body. If he hadn’t have been up all damn night running errands for Mama, then it may have been different; but, as it was, his back pressed against the rough bark of a tree while he leaned forward. With his hands resting on slightly bent knees, he tried to listen past the sound of his own gasps for the tell-tale sounds that would gave away his prey’s location. But with his throat rattling with every gulp of air and his heart beating so hard that it almost sounded like the thumping of a low-flying helicopter, he was lucky that he could even hear his own thoughts.
“Son of a bitch… shit….”
The frigid bite of the air had spread into the metal of the gun and it now felt as if he carried a block of ice solidly in his hand. From his back pocket, the fingers from a pair of green work gloves waved at his ass and he was tempted to slip them on, even if it were only for a little bit. The numbing cold made his knuckles and joints feel as stiff and unresponsive as an engine that had been running without oil. Even just five minutes would be enough to chase away the needles of pain that nicked his exposed flesh.
“Gotta be ready.” He reminded himself. “Gotta be prepared.”
It was, after all, hard enough for him to force his rounded index finger through the trigger guard as it was. He had just enough room to feel the frosty curve of metal against the crook of that finger. Just enough space that he would be able to squeeze off a shot at a moment’s notice. With the thick, cotton gloves on, he’d be lucky to get even his fingernail into position: it would be like trying to shove a pig into a bucket.
Besides, what was a little discomfort compared to what those bastards must have put Mama through? If he couldn’t even put up with some discomfort in order to have his revenge, then he was never really deserving of her love to begin with and no better than that good for nothing brother of his.
“Don’t know for certain that she’s dead.” Part of his mind insisted. “What did ya really see? Nothin’ more than a pair of glasses and a bit of blood. Blood coulda been from that blond bitch. And the glasses coulda broke when they fell off.”
Earl would have liked to believe this quiet voice in the back of his mind. He would have loved to think that Mama was back at the house, hiding somewhere while she listened for the familiar sound of her sons’ footsteps. Perhaps under the sink like a frightened little mouse. Or wedged into the closet-sized space behind the false paneling where they stashed the jewelry, clothing, and other personal effects of those who were unfortunate enough to be brought into their home. There were a thousand places in the farmhouse that a nimble old woman could lay low.
But, deep down inside, Earl knew this wasn’t the case. It was a certainty that felt like a hollow pit somewhere between his gut and chest and he wondered, for a moment, if this was how a mother felt after carrying a child in her womb for the better part of a year. To have this life suddenly gone after being accustomed to its weight for so long. This pit that was now as empty as a shallow grave waiting to be filled.
Earl’s eye stung and he tried to tell himself that it was only because they were dry and tired. Real men didn’t cry. Real men pushed it all back inside and fed off its bitter aftertaste like a baby bird being force fed worms and insects. It made them stronger, made them able to get up and do what needed to be done. Crying was for sissy boys like Daryl; tears were why that little pansy was cut up and whimpering in the dark while Earl was rewarded with Mama’s special treats. As long as he remained a man, Earl was able to enjoy the pleasures that accompanied it: the soft squish of a boob squeezed in his hand; the musty scent of a woman’s most secret place… and Mama’s voice, whispering in his ear that it was okay, that this was what men did to women, that it was natural that it felt good.
Earl’s head snapped up as if it were spring-loaded. In the distance, he could just make out something slipping through the maze of trees. Partially obscured by darkness, it was nothing more than a moving shadow. But it was large. And there was only one thing it could be.
“Gotcha now, motherfucker.”
He raised the pistol at arm’s length, squeezed one eye shut, and sighted down the barrel. With a fluid grace that seemed out of place, he tracked the bastard’s movements slowly, always making sure that the little nub of metal on the end of the gun was slightly in front of his target.
And then, as he exhaled, his finger flexed. The pistol kicked in his hand as strongly as if something had slammed against the underside of his wrist. Fire licked from the muzzle and a puff of almost sulfuric smelling smoke billowed into the air as the roar of the gun boomed through the clearing.
The moving shadow toppled like it had tripped over some hidden obstacle and stumbled to the ground. For a second, Earl kept the weapon trained on the little mound of darkness that was just visible between the stand of trees; but it didn’t try to get back up. It didn’t kick or thrash or bellow in pain.
“Damn, Dead Eye,” he mumbled into his frost-coated beard, “one shot.”
Still, he had to be sure that son of a bitch wasn’t playing possum. He had to make certain the murdering asshole was really down for good.
He pulled the trigger two more times in rapid succession and watched as the body jolted with each impact. Nodding his head with satisfaction, Earl stomped through the snow while the high pitched ringing leftover from the gunfire filled his head like an announcement from the Emergency Broadcast System.
There was no way someone could just lay there and take two slugs like that. No one that was still alive.
“And that, retard,” he said to his absent brother, “is what it takes to be a man.”
SCENE FIFTEEN
Searching the bottom floor of the house had proven pointless. Daryl had opened every closet, looked behind any piece of furniture that was caddy-corner with the walls, and had even went as far as checking the cupboards in the kitchen. Cobwebs clung to his mustache and the knees of his pants were dusty from where he’d crouched on the floor and peered underneath Mama’s bed. He’d noticed the record player and speakers laying on the floor, surrounded by drops of dried blood as if they had jumped to their death; and there were also cinders and ash scattered… almost as if something had disturbed the remains of the fire. So he’d stooped as low as he could and peered up into the darkness of the chimney as the lingering warmth from the hearth radiated over a face now smeared with soot.
It had been like staring into mouth of a nightmare: so pitch black that he could almost imagine hundreds of red, glowing eyes peering down at him. His stomach had gurgled as his hands began to shake and it almost looked like the shadows were creeping toward him, devouring more and more of the creosote coated bricks as they reached toward him with tentacles of darkness. He’d fallen backward and scooted across the floor like a dog with ass worms in reverse, his eyes never straying far from the open hearth while his pulse and breath quickened.
“Nothin’ up there.” He breathlessly muttered. “Nothin’ up there at all. Not her, not nothin’ else either.”
Picking himself up, he’d backed away as if he’d half expected a flock of bats to surge out from the chimney and cover him with their leathery wings and razor-like teeth. The cleaver he’d snatched from a kitchen drawer caught a stray shaft of sun and threw reflections of light that jerked and darted across the walls.
“Grow up. Ain’t no reason to be shakin’ like a palsy victim. You got the cleaver, right? And she ain’t nothin’ but one woman. You hack her ass a few times and it’ll take the fight plum out of her.”
The tremor in his voice, however, contradicted the bravado of his running monologue. Snapshots from Mona’s Secret Delights still burst through his mind like a slide presentation from a vacation in Hell. Maybe it was because, outwardly, she looked so sweet and innocent. Even a little shy, perhaps. She was the type of girl he would have imagined writing love poems; maybe dabbing her eyes with tissue as she silently moved her lips to a chick flick that had been watched so often that even the DVD player knew how everything would turn out. The type who should
