The Backwoods

The man raping his wife looked over his shoulder while his fornication didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, looky there, sweetie. Your husband’s finally woked his old ass up.” A chunky face grinned back. “Hey, Wilfrud? You don’t mind me raping the holy ever-livin’ shit outta this old bag you got fer a wife, do ya?”

Wilfrud’s eyes bugged in rage; he recognized the portly face at once: Junior, one of the Caudill boys. Wilfrud struggled uselessly against his bonds, the rope digging into his wrists, and when he tried to shout, the only vocal objection he could muster was more of the same croaking.

Worse were Ethel’s croaks. Junior was choking her with the leather cord of the pontica stone around her neck. He’d twist the cord down tight till her face darkened and her tongue began to protrude, but just before she’d either pass out or die, he’d release it—to rape her harder. He wanted her alive for the entire ordeal.

But why was he doing this?

And what would happen when he was done?

Junior began to grunt, twisting the pontica cord harder, and then his pelvic thrusts slowed and stopped.

He straggled to his feet, hitched up the overalls, and dusted himself off. “Ain’t exactly the best piece a’ ass I’ve had, but not bad fer an old box. What is this bitch, Wilfrud? About sixty? Me, I prefer ’em a tad younger, like about ten, but in a pinch? Any piece a’ ass is better than none, huh?”

Junior belted out a piglike noise that sufficed for a laugh, but then his eyes darted back down to Ethel, who now lay utterly still. “Aw, shit! Don’t tell me she’s fuckin’ dead! I need her still kickin’ for the rest a’ the party !” He dropped to his knees, slapped her face several times, then put an ear to her bare chest to listen for a heartbeat. “Whew!” he said next. “Ya lucked out, Wilfrud. Her ticker’s still tickin’.” He stood back up. “Let’s give her a splash or two a’ water in the face, to spark her up. . . .”

Wilfrud roared in his throat through the gag, surging against the bonds. Junior had opened his fly and was now urinating liberally into Ethel’s face. The revolting process did indeed revive her, soaking her.

“Well, there goes another six-pack!”

By now Wilfrud was oblivious to the pain of the flesh around his wrists grinding away. He brokenly barked out through his gag, “Cut me loose! Cut me loose!”

Junior zipped back up. “What’s that, Wilfrud? Cain’t rightly understand ya, what with the gag. Oh! You want me to cut ya loose?” Another piglike guffaw. “Come on! Why in tarnation would I wanna do that?”

Now Junior leaned against a tree, arms casually crossed. “You don’t even know this, Wilfrud, but in yer own little way you n’ this creepy old tramp are playin’ a part in a big plan that’ll make things around here a damn sight better fer everybody.” He scratched his belly. “Well, I should say almost everybody, ‘cos things just got a damn sight worse fer you and the little missus.” Junior looked up at the moon in the sky. “And I’m afraid it’s gettin’ late. Time for this party to end, don’t ya think?”

Ethel shuddered in the dirt, hacking up urine through the gag. Without a moment’s hesitation, Junior reached behind the tree and pulled out an inordinately large fire ax, then stepped up, parted his legs, hoisted it up over his head in a great arc—

“Nooo!” Wilfrud gagged.

—and—

Thhhhwunk!

—dropped the massive blade into Ethel’s belly. Then—

Thhhwunk! Thhhwunk!

—two more downward plunges of the blade cut her naked body in half in a straight line just above her hips.

Her bare heels thunked in the soil, white legs quivering. The upper half convulsed, back trying to arch reflexively.

Wilfrud was choking on his tongue, straining ever harder against his bonds, but all for nothing. He choked out some final, faulty bellows as the whites of his eyes hemorrhaged red in outrage.

Junior grinned, his own eyes beaming down. He set the ax aside. “How’s that for a piece a’ work?”

Ethel’s legs finally fell still, while the upper half of her body remained miraculously alive. She actually managed to flip herself over and began to crawl toward Junior.

“Bitch’s got some spunk; I’ll give her that,” Junior remarked. He grabbed the pendant cord, hoisted her up, then looped the cord over the crook of a broken branch. He stood back to watch as Ethel slowly strangled against the tree, innards uncoiling.

“God, that was fun. . . .”

By now Wilfrud’s horror and exertion left him limp. Junior unsheathed a buck knife and approached. “Her ticket’s punched, so I guess it’s time to punch yours too, Wilfrud.”

“Uuugh!” went Wilfrud.

Junior pigstuck him low with the knife, one deep jab just below the navel.

“But I got tell ya,” Junior went on, “all this choppin’ and chokin’ and stabbin’s got my dog barkin’ again, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled, showing brown teeth. “And there ain’t exactly anyone around who’s gonna call me a pervert, huh?”

Wilfrud groaned in the lowest agony, blood and bile eddying from his wound.

Junior shrugged and approached the sprawled legs on the ground. “So I just say . . . what the hell!”

He lowered his overalls again, then crawled between the legs, and this was what Wilfrud Hild got to watch for the remaining ten minutes it took him to die.

(I)

Looks like she’s sleeping in, Patricia realized. It seemed understandable. Patricia had risen early to the sound of cicadas and chirping finches. She’d left her window open last night, a luxury she was beginning to enjoy—the fresh night air flowing over her as she slept, and no police sirens and ambulances, like at home. And unlike yesterday morning, she didn’t waken feeling guilty and embarrassed. She recalled snippets of intense sexual dreams, but this time her frolics didn’t involve making love to Ernie in front of her husband. Simply strangers this time, and dreaming of strangers didn’t constitute infidelity. Just a bunch of silly, dirty dreams, she dismissed them. Everybody has them. Byron has them. I’m not going to feel guilty. It was a solid resolve to begin the day with.

But at one point during the night, had she awakened and imagined herself being watched by a peeper through the window? She even recalled masturbating again, to a delicious climax, but that had to have been a dream too.

And dreams are harmless, so I’m not going to stress over it.

After she’d dressed for the day, she noticed Ernie’s door open, and when she peeked inside she found it empty. That was when she went upstairs to check on Judy—to find her still heavily asleep. Last night she’d eventually passed out, but maybe now that Dwayne’s ashes were officially scattered, Judy could put her despair behind her and focus on pursuing the positive things in her life. I can only hope, Patricia thought, and gently closed the door.

Back downstairs, she rejected the idea of making herself breakfast, and instead headed out to the backyard. Something she couldn’t identify seemed to be pushing her out of the house, and she could only suppose she was ignoring what “home” had always reminded her of, and, in place of that, she was enjoying the beautiful natural environment here. This was opposite of the city; this was refreshingly different from what she’d grown so used to looking at every day in D.C. She stepped out onto the fieldstone path and stood stunned for a moment. A cloudless sky hung overhead, the clearest blue, which only made the sun seem more vibrant. The patches of grass between the flower beds almost glowed, they were so green, and the flowers themselves were explosions of razor-sharp reds, yellows, and violets. Yeah, I guess coming back home this time isn’t going to be as bad as I thought. . . . Perhaps she was evolving past her trauma, and was proving Dr. Sallee wrong in his insistence that she should avoid Agan’s Point at all costs. Racy dreams, an inexplicable burst of sexual awareness, masturbating far more than usual? This was so unlike her, but today she was feeling better and better about it.

She kicked her sandals off to stride barefoot across the more expansive tracts of grass farther off in the backyard. I don’t know where I’m going and . . . I don’t need to know, she realized.