Blood of Cain

96

As the big man was collapsing, I sighted the cross-hairs on the chest of another man. He was one of two gripping the outstretched arms of the captive man. I squeezed the trigger, saw a cloud of red mist erupt through the scope, and then sighted on the chest of the man on the opposite side of the prisoner. The round hit him just below the neck.

Three down in less than five seconds.

And in that time, Dillon Flanagan was gone. He fled, pulling Courtney with him, vanishing in the thick woods. The younger man who had been held captive, ran the opposite direction and away from what he undoubtedly must think was the village of the damned.

“Sean, are you okay?” Dave’s voice sounded synthetic, like it came from inside a lead pipe.

I fished the phone out of my pocket. “Yeah, I’m okay. Three hostiles down. He’s got her, Dave. Dillon vanished with Courtney back up in the woods. He’s running an eighteenth century farm here. Looks like some kind of cult following. It’s definitely a compound. Don’t know how well they’re armed. But I’ve got to go in, and do it quickly.”

“You can’t cross the ravine, at least not fast. Walk back to your car. I see what looks like an old logging road. According to my data, International Timber logged some of the mountain before World War Two. Some of the loggers probably stayed in whatever homes or buildings that were left standing from the ghost town of Mount Gilead.”

“From what I can see, there are about a dozen cabins and assorted buildings including a working grist mill. Residents may be heavily armed.”

“Only one road leads into that place. You can bet it’s being watched.”

One man held a pistol on Courtney. Two others carried a wooden box as they followed Dillon Flanagan deeper into the forest, down winding logging trails. Soon they came to a low-lying area, a gorge or a large washed out gulley that had been cut at the base of the cliffs by fast moving water. Dillon pointed to a spot in the sand, turned to his men and said, “Dig.”

They used two shovels to remove the soil, and within a few minutes had dug a hole — a grave. Dillon said, “Brother John … fit the pipe onto the box. We’ll sink it to allow for three inches of pipe to rise up out of the soil.”

The man called Brother John nodded, worked the pipe into the hole that had been cut to receive it.

Courtney bolted.

She ran hard through the gorge, her shoes slipping in the mud. Dillon watched for a moment and said, “Retrieve the runaway. Bring her back alive and put her in the box.”

The men took off, running like hounds chasing a fox. With hands tied behind her back, Courtney’s speed was diminished. In less than a minute, the men had caught and tackled her in the mud. They lifted her up and brought her back to Dillon, dropping her at his feet. He kicked her in the mouth, squatted down and said, “Little niece, you’re gonna die, but not ‘till I say how and when. Now lie down in your coffin.”

She spat mud and saliva in his face. He grinned, wiped if off with one hand, wiping it on her shirt, across her left breast. He leaned in her ear and whispered. “I remember what they felt like when they were growing.” The he rose up and said, “You will cross the threshold tonight. You’ll do it with my brother. A full moon is rising across the abyss.” He paused and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. “Smell that? That’s the promise. Lots of rain. A big nor’easter is due to arrive about midnight. You know how fast the water from the rains come down this canyon? It’ll be a flashflood. Won’t take long to cover up that pipe. Drowning is a bad way to go ‘cause it takes so long to die. Lungs burn, you cough, spit up water, trying so hard to catch a breath of sweet air. Then you’ll have nothing but water to breathe, and you’ll finally begin to surrender … sort of dreamlike because in the casket you’ll plainly hear your own heart beat its last thump-thump.” He grinned, a rising moon trapped in his black eyes. “And you have asthma.”

“You will burn in hell! You bastard!”

“Pack the witch in, brothers. Remove the rope from her wrists. I like to hear vermin scratch the wood.”

The men grabbed Courtney. She kicked. “No! Don’t listen to him! He’s the worst kind of evil. Dillon Flanagan is no prophet. He is the devil himself.” They used a sharp knife to slice the ropes from her wrist, shoving her in the coffin, quickly slamming the lid on, two men sitting on it, one man nailing it shut. Courtney screamed as the last nail was driven into the wood. The men set the coffin in the grave and began shoveling dirt and mud into the hole.

She kicked at the lid. Pounded with her fists. She took short breaths through her nostrils, the odor inside the coffin smelled of sawdust and mud. She lay there and listened to the sound of dirt falling against the top of the tomb. She prayed silently. Thought about her grandmother. “Sean, where are you?” Then she felt as if the walls to the tomb were closing in, her breathing labored, asthma coming on strong. She pursed her lips into the pipe that protruded inside the casket. She fought for her breath, her lungs burning.

Dillon stood over the grave and smiled, the full moon rising in the sky far beyond his shoulders. He bellowed, “I smell the promise of rain!”

Courtney screamed, used her fingernails to claw at the lid of the coffin, her mournful cry sounding as if it came from the center of the earth.