7

Vargas

He never thought he could be so easily creeped out in daylight, yet the moment Vargas climbed out of the truck and stood in front of the house something cold and dry crawled up his spine.

A sense of anticipation. And dread.

The place was fairly typical for this part of the country. A large crumbling rectangle of sun-dried clay that had undoubtedly once housed the family who ran the gas station near the highway.

Its walls were adorned with more graffiti. One of the newer additions read: CASA DE LA MUERTE.

House of Death.

Despite the missing chunks of tile roof that let in swathes of mottled sunlight, there was a darkness of spirit here. A malevolence. The entrance was a doorless hole that reminded Vargas of an open maw. And to step past its threshold was to risk being swallowed alive.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

“I’m not goin’ in there again,” Junior said. He was still in the F-150, uncertainty in his eyes.

Ainsworth spat into the dirt, then squinted at him through the open driver’s door.

“What did I just tell you, boy?”

“I don’t like this place.”

“It’s a goddamn house. It’s not gonna bite you.” Ainsworth lowered his voice, but there was no softness or warmth this time. “Now you can sit in there like a friggin’ faggot, or you can paint that sorry butt white and start runnin’ with the antelope. Which is it gonna be?”

Junior was quiet for a moment, then finally wilted under the heat of his father’s gaze.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

“Okay what?”

“I’ll come out.”

Ainsworth’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re gonna do a helluva lot more than that, Kimo Sabe. You’re gonna lead the way. Take us inside, show Nick here where we found the rest of those bodies.”

Junior solemnly nodded his head. “Yessir.”

Climbing out of the truck, he stared at the house a long moment before moving up to its crumbling doorway. Pausing at the threshold, he shot his father a nervous glance, then gestured for Vargas to follow him inside.

Robert Gregory Browne

Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller)

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