Part 10 (1/2)

What he saw in the truck bed caused him to stiffen. Three corpses were splayed in the trunk. Each of them were slathered in blood, almost swimming in it, because they were hacked into pieces. No corpse was left intact. Two of the severed arms and the shoulder sockets gleamed of metal at their meaty stumps, and beneath the twisted bolts of tissue, were the curls of steel springs.

”My G.o.d,” he kept muttering to himself. Brock failed to make sense of it, so he ran to the driver's seat, though he didn't find anybody inside. A large b.l.o.o.d.y knapsack was strewn on the pa.s.senger side, the top bent so he could see what was inside. It was stocked with coins, credit cards, dollar bills, credit cards, rings (and one of them was Hannah's, a promise ring her sister made her wear vowing to never marry anybody ever again), and random jewelry.

He got Hannah.

But she wasn't in the truck.

Then where is she?

Hearing the jarring snap of a branch crack under a hard footstep, Brock hunkered back down into the woods, kneeling low, holding his breath, and keeping watch.

There he was, he thought, the man with the axe. The axe head was golden, though the surface was sullied by thick congealing blood. The burly man was over six feet tall with the stature of a hearty lumber jack. The man scanned the horizon, the patches of woods, and up the road, turning over every hideaway in the area. Somebody had gotten away from him, Brock thought. Was it him, Brock wondered, or was it Hannah, or one of the four robbers? The way the bodies were mutilated in the truck bed, there was no way telling how many people were in there or who it really was dead.

Brock prayed the man didn't find him.

There must be no police if he can drive around with dead bodies in his truck. For G.o.d's sake, there's blood trickling down the b.u.mper.

The killer marched back to his truck, slinging the axe into the back of the truck, done with killing for now. The beast of a man took the wheel again. Taking it out of park, he sped away.

Brock stepped out of the cover of the woods after he was certain the man wouldn't catch him in his rearview mirror. He wasn't sure if he should run after the truck or form a better plan.

I have no plan. I have no place to go. Hannah could be in those woods. She could be wherever that b.a.s.t.a.r.d took her. She could be dead. I don't know!

The sense of loss began to sink in. He wouldn't marry Hannah. What if he found her in pieces? And what was with the steel springs in that man's arm sockets in the truck bed? Had he imagined it?

Angel was here somewhere too, he remembered. Was she already a victim? He had nothing to go on. He could be miles from town, and where did that leave him?

Brock kept jogging forward in a determined pace.

Keep moving, and you'll find someone that can help you.

His wish was ill-rewarded. Up ahead, the truck that had just drove off came back, the tires squealing, the truck bed rocking back and forth, jostled by the vehicle's increasing speed.

He knows I'm here!

Brock broke for the woods, das.h.i.+ng for another place to hide. Instead of running, he listened and waited. n.o.body was coming. The man with the axe had overlooked him, or hadn't seen him to begin with.

He spotted a shed that was the size of two full-sized bedrooms with a roof over the top through the trees ahead. Encouraged by the good hiding place, his feet guided him on. There could be a phone inside, though the prospect was grim. He was enticed by the shelter anyway. That was until he stepped in leaves that weren't solid ground beneath. Squis.h.i.+ng on something semi-solid, he landed on his hands. Turning his gaze to the ground, he caught the blackened face underneath the pointy ends of wilted leaves. The eyes were gone, the sockets gulfs of red syrup. The corpse's mouth was wide in a permanent scream.

”Gawd!”

Brock backed up from the body by scooting on his hands and the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. Horrified, Brock retreated to the shed, throwing the door behind him closed, locking it, and breathing in air that was tainted with stirred-up nastiness that seemed to be stuck to his clothes. He took stock of the shed. No guns, no telephone, and nothing useful beyond a pair of binoculars on a table. The table was made of cheap stock, and judging by the deck of Bicycle game cards and the half-empty bottle of whisky on the table, and the ashtray with the nubs of cigars, he supposed someone played a good game of solitaire while viewing the woods. Not just the woods, he learned, noticing the thick book called ”The Field Guide of Local Birds” propped in the corner on the floor.

He grabbed the binoculars. ”Let's see what the h.e.l.l I can find out there.”

The binoculars turned out to be long range, the kind used for hunting quail or stalking deer. After guessing what the adjustments did, Brock scanned through miles of woods.

”Gaah!”

He folded over, pressing his back up against the wall underneath the open window he peered out of after catching the man with the axe skulk about the woods. He had no idea from what locale or distance the man was moving to or from. The split-second image of the man with a s.h.i.+rt sodden in fresh blood, Brock couldn't help but imagine it was Hannah's blood.

What else could he be looking for?

You, you idiot.

Forced to check out the window again, Brock scanned the woods for the man again and failed to locate him.

If he comes through that door, you jump out of that window and run.

Brock eyed the bottle of ”High Rise” brand whiskey, imagining his hand grabbing it and breaking it over the man's head and then throttling the man's neck until he confessed where he'd taken Hannah. Keeping himself together, Brock listened again. Hearing nothing, he decided to keep studying the distance. Looking through the woods, he came upon a residential area. During his inspection, he kept gasping, choking on words and appall at each landmark and building he registered.

He glimpsed an old man who had blown his brains out. The corpse was sitting on a rocking chair on the front porch. An emaciated body was splayed on a rooftop clutching a sign that said HELP ME. Every other finger clutching the sign was missing. A priest in full garb was hanging from a nearby tree from a noose, rotting in the color of green marble and black bruises. Beyond the houses, Brock got a look at a section of town, namely a grocery store, a strip of restaurants, a library, and a school yard. All of it was covered in the aftermath of a large scale riot. Not a single window remained unbroken or vehicle left unturned. He caught four different ATM machines smashed and left in the middle of the road. A local bank had been shot up by hundreds, if not thousands, of bullet holes. A Jeep had crashed through the front of that bank, the inside looted and charred. Trails of blood matched the evidence of violence among the sidewalks. Hundreds of corpses were laying about rotting and puckering in the sun. They were violently killed.

What Brock stayed on the longest was the nearby park filled with children sitting on swing sets. Their hands clenched the chains, righting themselves up. Their backs were stooped and their heads pointed down in a death pose. More children were strewn on the bottom of slides in piles, or laying on the ground below the monkey bars, as if sleep had suddenly caught them. Every corpse was growing fetid in the sun.

Looking beyond the playground, he caught a woman on her porch steps cradling her husband. Both had slit their wrists, their blood painting the porch and steps.

Just what the h.e.l.l happened here?

He kept checking the distance for the man with the axe and came up with nothing.

He's gone.

And so is your chance at finding Hannah.

Suddenly he overheard a breath expelled nearby. It was one of expressed awe. Brock was leery to follow it, but he was also too desperate and on edge to ignore it. He exited the shed quietly and stalked deeper into the woods. It wasn't long before Brock spotted the man staring up at the tree with his arms rigid at his sides.

It escaped Brock's lips, ”A-are you okay?”

The man turned around as if rudely disturbed. Soon, a caught expression spread upon the man's face. He was the same age as Brock. He had graying hair on the verge of becoming white. He wore a black s.h.i.+rt and white khaki pants. The man's eyes were wild and always wide open as if everything he saw was beyond belief.

The stranger spoke meekly, ”You're not going to hurt me, are you?”

The question struck Brock as odd. ”No, of course not. Hey, can I ask you a question? Have you seen a woman in her fifties? Blonde hair. Skinny. Her name's Hannah. We were robbed by these four people earlier. Man, it was a nightmare.”

”I haven't see anyone.” He sensed the man's posture ease up. ”Let me ask you a question. How long have you been here? In Blue Hills, I mean.”

”Since yesterday.”

”Oh.” He was confused. ”And you said you were robbed by four people?”

”Yes, and I think this man with an axe attacked them.”

”Where is he?” Nervous, ”Is he here? When did you see him last?”

”Maybe. I'm not sure. He's out there somewhere. I saw him minutes ago.”

Brock observed the steel square installed in the tree. He was suddenly captivated by what the other man had been studying. It matched the slots over the telephones. ”Do you know what the h.e.l.l is on that tree? Who put it there?”

The man shook his head. ”I have no idea. They just keep appearing on things. It's as strange to me as it is to you.”