Hell's Half Acre

thirty-three.

BLINK AND MORNING IS UPON ME. I am staring, unhinged. I feel like I’m waking from a dream. But that was no dream. Jude and I have a child, a boy named Everson. He’s with Jude’s sister, and who the hell would have thought Jude had a sister? I always figured she was harvested in a lab, with all the other genetically enhanced ninjas. She named our son after my brother, whom I mentioned to her exactly once, the brother I haven’t seen in a thousand years. There is a cigarette in my left hand, burned down to the filter. Ashes on the table, dirty snow. The sound of a tea kettle. I look around the corner and see that Daphne is in the kitchen, wearing snug little boy shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt ripped in half. I don’t want to talk to her. I hold my breath until she takes her tea and goes outside. I want coffee, now. My muscles make unpleasant popping noises when I stand.

I have one complex objective now.

Jude and I must get out of this place, alive. I want to meet my son. But I have to get Sam out too, and Molly. I may have to kill Miller to accomplish this. I’m uneasy because the last time I saw him, some twelve hours ago, I shot him in the eye and he’s bound to be angry about it.

It’s early, maybe seven.

I start a pot of coffee and go to check on Molly. Her face is pale yet from the loss of blood, but her pulse is strong and she’s breathing normally. Blood is strange. Donate a pint of it to the Red Cross and you go home lightheaded but otherwise feeling fine. The nurses give you a cookie. But you spill that same pint into somebody’s bed and it’s a fucking freakshow. I fetch myself a cup of black coffee and return to the window. I’m not feeling so insane as last night and I want to sit with Molly. I want to watch her sleep. Irrational, no doubt. Drug related. But I am weirdly cheerful. I feel like a guy who’s on his way to the airport, like a guy who’s going home. I feel high. Molly sleeps.

I find myself floating around the house, peering aimlessly out the windows. On the west side of the house there’s a little Japanese rock garden overgrown with weeds and yellow wildflowers. There are a couple of wrought-iron chairs and a hammock. It looks like a nice place to think and I am about to go try out that hammock when Daphne walks into frame, carrying her tea. I immediately hunker down to watch her from the window. Daphne eyes the hammock, but I figure she’s afraid she will spill her tea because she sits in one of the chairs instead. She now wears the same gauze white dress she wore at the Paradise, thin and translucent and it clings to her in such a way that it could cause madness. I take a shivering breath and tell myself to banish evil thoughts.

But it won’t hurt to watch her. I light a cigarette and make myself comfortable.

Daphne isn’t doing anything interesting, though. Daphne is drinking her tea and daydreaming about the past, maybe the future. Daphne is smiling, watching a few birds hop around the garden and I am about to go back to the living room when Miller walks into view, carrying one of the spear guns I saw in the garage. He wears a patch over his left eye. The hair on my neck tingles but somehow I just sit there. I just sit there. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I tell myself he’s on his way to see me, to put an aluminum spear in my heart, and he’s just stopping to say hello to Daphne and after a few pleasantries, he’ll move along. Daphne stands up and her lips part in the shape of hello. Miller smiles and bows and she offers him her hand and now Miller moves very close to her. He violates her space. He kisses her hand and she laughs, as if he’s being silly. Miller says something to her but I can only see the side of his face and I probably couldn’t read his lips anyway. Daphne stands with the teacup in one hand, Miller holding the other. Daphne is smiling but the smile is fading, slowly fading. Miller shows her the spear gun and Daphne’s brow furrows politely, as if she is thinking yes, that is a very nice spear gun but why are you showing it to me. At which point Miller shrugs and shoots her in chest. The spear plunges deep enough to come out the back and the sound it makes is like smashing a pumpkin with a hammer and even as I run for the door I imagine I can hear the air and fluids hissing from her body.

Through the kitchen and out the back door, running blind. Feet hammering like mad on the wooden deck and from the sound of it you would think there were three of me. I still have Miller’s gun, with two real bullets in it, and I would love to shoot him with one. I swing myself over the handrail to the ground below and because I’m high and deprived of sleep and something of a fool, I come down on that fucked-up left ankle from last night. The pain is electric and I roll into a fetal position. But not for long. I don’t want to be found like this.

I pull myself together and come limping around the side of the house, gun in hand, listening for him, sniffing the air for Miller and automatically my eyes go to Daphne’s body. Twisted, unrecognizable, her body is contorted so that at first glance she appears to have one leg and two broken arms and no head. Her white dress is black with blood and now I see that the spear indeed stabbed though her just below the ribcage and came out the other side, and the words pig in a poke flash helplessly through my head. I stare at her for a long breathless moment, and then there is the crunch of gravel behind me and a baseball bat hits me in the right shoulder hard enough to break me.

Oh, the way the brain functions.

Because even while getting my ass kicked, my brain is happy to do some fast calculations and let me know exactly how Miller got the drop on me. He heard me coming. He knew I was watching, and killed Daphne for my benefit.

Or maybe not.

He has the bloodlust, no question, and maybe he killed her purely for the giggles but he probably heard me crashing through the kitchen and out onto the deck. He certainly heard me moaning and cursing over my fucked ankle, and so he went around the house to get behind me, stopping in the garage to grab his Louisville Slugger.

Meanwhile.

The right arm is crippled but somehow I’m still holding that gun and a kid could tell you I’m gonna shoot myself in the foot, any minute now. I try to transfer it to my left hand but Miller just shrugs and hits me with some kind of karate kick that spins me around like a toy soldier. The gun sails away and disappears into a yellow and brown carpet of fallen leaves.

Fucked. Phineas is fucked.

Miller is hellish pleased with himself. He dances away from me, bouncing on his toes. He sends another kick my way, this time at my head. I hobble sideways and manage to take it on the side of the head, instead of directly between the eyes. He seems annoyed that I haven’t fallen down yet, and frankly I’m surprised. He doesn’t say anything though, and I thank him for that. I hate guys who make a lot of wisecracks while they’re pounding on you.

I back away from him, breathing hard. My vision is screwy and everything is on a diagonal. Miller hops toward me, grinning. And I move to his left, his blind side. He is not used to the eye patch and this gives me an opening to hit him square in the face with a little jab that causes his nose to bleed and pisses him off something awful, and Miller promptly hits me in the chest with one of those karate punches that I understand conceptually but don’t know how to throw, the punch that aims for a spot somewhere beyond the point of initial impact so that the fist punches through you like a lead ball and reaches maximum density somewhere behind you, knocking you four maybe five feet backward and in the meantime sucking all of the air out of your body. Then he follows it up with another savage kick to the head and baby I am down.

The fight is over and I want to tell him to finish it. If your guy is down you don’t stick around for anger management. You snap his neck and move on. But Miller is just getting started. He has issues, and he wants to work them out. He kicks me mercilessly, again and again. I wish I could tell him that he’s wasting his time, that I can’t feel anything because I’m slipping into shock and one section of my brain is already experiencing a tasty in-flight movie in which Michelle Pfeiffer exposes some righteous flesh. And after a while, he just gets tired of kicking me. He picks up the baseball bat and takes a few swings, but his breathing is labored and apparently he doesn’t want to kill me just yet, because he suddenly loses interest and tosses the bat aside. Then he crouches down and sticks his vile tongue in my ear.

The indignity. I’m going to kill him for that, if I ever walk again.

I’m slipping down a black tunnel and the last thing I see is Miller, upside down and sideways and stuffing Daphne’s body into a red, white, and blue duffel bag and dragging her out of sight, presumably to deposit her in the grave dug by Huck and I reckon it’s handy to have a grave dug in advance.

I wake on hard, cold wood, a damp T-shirt wadded into a pillow under my head. Bright cruel needles of sunlight and now there is a face looming over me, Molly’s face.

Are you okay?

Uh. I don’t know.

Don’t try to move, yet.

I give her a feeble smile and run a fast systems check on the body. The fingers and toes are responding, which bodes well. The ankle is still sore but less noticeable now, what with all the other bruised and broken body parts howling for a little attention. The skull is a bit tender and I allow for the possibility of fluid on the brain. The right arm is numb and sore but unbroken. I can move the fucker, anyway. The face has that tight leather feel that I personally associate with dried blood. That would be from the previously mentioned head wound. I estimate maybe four broken ribs and that’s all for today.

I’m a peach.

Jude’s face heaves into view and she looks worried. For her, she looks very worried. Jude is biting her lip and her pupils are so dilated they swallow her eyes and I have a feeling she’s worried about more than just Phineas and his talent for getting the shit kicked out of him. Her nerves look to me to be utterly jangled. She holds up her finger and moves it back and forth and tells me to follow it with my eyes. After a minute she sighs, apparently satisfied.

What’s up? I say.

You have a concussion. Don’t go to sleep tonight.

Okay.

This is it, she says.

Huh?

She hisses at me, please. Please.

I’m here, baby.

When you get out, she says. Burn it down.

Burn it, I say.

Do you understand?

Yes.

Jude nods, and slips away.

Where am I?

Molly strokes my forehead. I need you to get up.

You look pretty, I say. How does it feel to be pretty?

Phineas, please.

I know. I need to get up.

Molly gives me her hand.

Don’t help me, please.

I pull myself upright and allow myself a fuzzy look around. This is a room I’ve not yet seen. High, vaulted ceilings with exposed rafters. The hardwood floor. Tall windows and bright morning sun. There is no furniture but a shitty-looking mattress on the floor, with no sheets. Miller sits naked on the mattress, grinning. Jude stands on the other side, unbuttoning her dress, the same sleeveless white dress. Dizzy and I wobble sideways into Molly, who holds me up.

Help me, I say.

I’m here, she says.

I have to talk to Jude, I say. I have to ask her something.

You can’t, says Molly. Not now.

Why not?

Hush…please.

Where am I?

This is John’s room, she whispers.

It’s…nice.

I’m a son of a bitch, says Miller. You’re a tough cookie, Poe.

Thanks. What are we doing?

He shrugs. Just getting ready to shoot a little sex scene.

The crew is dead, I say. You killed the crew.

I know, he says. Nasty business, isn’t it.

Jude is a shadow behind him.

Nasty, I say. Yes.

Anyway, he says. Looks like I need you behind the camera today, Poe.

Lucky, I say. Lucky thing you didn’t kill me.

Miller nods, staring at me. He touches himself. Behind him, Jude removes a knife from her boot and slips it under the mattress.

Who is the shadow that walks beside you? I say.

Miller is still nodding, like he can’t stop.

What? he says.

I shake my head. Never mind.

There is no dialogue, no foreplay. Molly has one camera, I have another. She weaves around the room, drifting close to the bed and then away. I am positioned against the wall on the far side of the room, shooting the wide angle. Molly moves in and out of my shot, but I’m not really paying attention to her. Jude takes off her boots and throws them across the room, sailing high then crashing to the wood floor. Now she lets the white dress fall from her shoulders. Miller sits on the edge of the bed, his lips wet. The dress slips slowly to the floor and she is naked before him. The long brown body that was once mine, and never mine. Molly moves across the room and for a moment my view is obscured. Miller reaches for the prize, dragging Jude roughly down onto the bed. He mashes her mouth with his. Jude groans and pulls at him and in a moment he is on top of her, grunting and trying to get inside and when he finds purchase there is a silence in the room like no other. There is no dialogue, no foreplay.

Jude makes a sobbing sound and Molly glances back at me, her eyes bright with shame.

I shake my head. Not yet, not yet.

Jude raises her head to look at me over Miller’s shoulder, staring at me for a long, dreadful moment. Then closes her eyes as if in prayer.

Miller thrusts at her like a great hairless pig.

I place my camera on the floor and motion for Molly to do the same. She comes across the room as if it’s five miles wide. She goes through the door behind me and her footsteps are brutal whispers falling down the stairs. I stare across the room at the two bodies grinding and rutting on the bare mattress until they become one, until they become a green shadow that is not man or woman.

Outside. The sky is white. I cross the yard and enter the garage, where I collect a small yellow funnel and one of the plastic red jugs of gasoline. In the kitchen, I gather four empty liquor bottles and line them up along the sink. My head is ringing like a church bell and my peripheral vision is gone. I have a tiny window of daylight in front of me and that’s all I need. I am so fucking calm. My hands don’t shake at all as I fill the bottles with gas. I take off my shirt and rip it into four pieces, which I twist into coiled rags and stuff into the mouths of the bottles. Molly comes through the kitchen, carrying the boy against her chest. Her face is pale and bloodless and when I look at her I see a corpse wrapped in a white sheet, sleeping beneath a window. I wonder how weak she must be. The boy wakes up and turns to look at me, his eyes bright with fever.

It’s okay, I say. It’s okay, Sam.

Molly takes him outside and I empty the rest of the gasoline in the kitchen, the hallway. I run through the living room and dining room splashing gasoline behind me and I remember Molly’s monologue about families and the way they smell of furniture polish and dead flowers, of shampoo and dirty boots. They smell of ashtrays and garlic and spilled gin and gasoline.

Blackbirds slash the air around me. Molly walks up the long driveway with Sam in her arms. He weighs not quite fifty pounds but make no mistake, the boy is heavy, so heavy. One small child is enough to crush you. I stand maybe ninety feet from the house, the Molotov cocktails at my feet. I watch Molly and Sam until I’m satisfied they’re safely away, then pick up the first bottle. I light the rag and let it burn a moment, then heave it through the living room window with a shocking crash of fire and light. I pick up another bottle, grinning like a fool. I light the rag and hurl the second bottle at the kitchen window. There is a gorgeous little explosion this time, showering me with glass.

I am sorry about the reptiles. They didn’t ask for this. But they have been prepared for the apocalypse since the beginning of time. I throw the third bottle at what I think is the library, the last at an upstairs bathroom window, and already I hear the sirens. Impossible, I think. No one has a response time like that, but maybe we tripped a silent alarm. I turn and see that Molly has nearly made it to the road. The sirens are close and coming closer and I believe old Huck must have gotten his shit together and gone to the cops, or maybe it was the pretty motorcycle girl who turned to smile at me as she passed by with cigarettes that weren’t hers.

Jude waited for Miller to come, I imagine. She tolerated his breath, his crushing weight, to allow us time to get outside. The stink of his skin. Then she cut his throat with my knife when he came and his body was trembling, defenseless. I imagine she cut out his eyes, then took his hair. And I think it’s possible that she gathered her clothes and went out the window, swinging to the ground like a monkey with wings, but maybe not. Maybe she closed her eyes and curled up beside him as the bed filled with his blood, her blood. I see it in a wide, overhead shot.

The sirens are terribly loud and I think of dying angels and now three black and white police cars come down the driveway with blue lights flashing. Molly stops and stands at the mouth of the driveway with the boy in her arms. The first car slides to a stop in a mushroom cloud of dust. Two police officers come out of the white cloud, one male and one female. They are gentle with Molly, as if she might be Sam’s sister, and I am glad for that. I don’t think I could stand it, if they abused Molly. I might just pull the gun and then all would be lost. A third man gets out of the car and for a split second the sun and clouds are perfectly aligned so as to cast him in green shadow and I think this is Death coming for me, but then he steps out of the shadow and I see he’s just a man, a tall blond man with a prosthetic hand.

The cops are coming toward me now with guns held high. They are screaming at me and I don’t understand the words that fly jagged from their lips but they seem to want me to get on the ground. They don’t look like they want to be so gentle with me. I need to stop them from reaching the house too quickly. I need to give Jude a minute to get away, just a minute could save her. I crouch down and gather fine white dust into my hand as the house of Miller burns furiously behind me. I raise my hands above my head to show that I am not armed and still the cops are screaming.

Down, get the fuck down.

I am not armed. I am not armed but I can show you fear in a handful of dust.