Kealan Burke - Kin

She didn’t know the Sheriff, but now she was alone with him and he could only be here for one reason: to take her back home. She did not wait for him to turn and start toward the house. Instead, she quickly moved away from the window, her eyes watering at the smell of death that seemed to seep through her skin to get at her. In the small beam from the flashlight, she could see what looked like an ornate bed, the cast iron rusted and stained. The filthy mattress in the middle had sunken so low into the frame it was almost folded in two, springs and wires poking out here and there and coated with what looked like dried skin and coarse dark hair. Opposite the bed was a haphazard mound of clothes of every conceivable kind: T-shirts, shorts, underwear, jackets, hats, raincoats, shoes, socks. Fighting the urge to gag, she reached down and began to feel her way through the clothes.

What are you doing? This is insane!

She had thought all along that she had come here to confront her attackers, the murderers of her friends. But they weren’t here and yet she wasn’t leaving. Even with the means of her departure stalking toward the house, she was still ransacking through old clothing, looking for…

Looking for—what?

For them, she realized. For their clothes, for things that belonged to them and were never meant to belong to anyone else. Things that still carry their blood, the scent of their sweat, their perfume, cologne. Their private things. The things that were pieces of them. The things I need to take with me so I won’t dare forget.

With her tears came a desperate, frantic search through the last few items heaped on the floor. She found wallets, purses, a soiled wig, a toothbrush, a pocket mirror and some makeup, but nothing she recognized as anything her friends had once owned.

She fell to her knees, removed her hand from her mouth.

The noxious smell invaded her. She gagged, reached for something, anything with which to cover her mouth. Dug a hand into her pocket. And found the phone.

What if he answered? The memory of that night came back to her and she tore the phone free of her pocket, hit the menu button and raised it up in front of her face. The green glow aided her in locating Danny’s number. The phone was here , she thought . He was here. I want it back. I want him back .

Sobbing, hands trembling so hard she feared she might not be able to keep the phone from slipping from her grip and smashing against the floor, she dialed the number.

Time spun away from her, the bilious stench forgotten, the bedsprings groaning for a moment as if a ghost had rested its weight there to watch her. Startled, she looked up.

His phone should be dead by now. Or turned off. But even the promise of his recorded voice thrilled her. A little piece of him she could always keep. The only part of her he’d given her.

The call went through.

Danny’s phone began to ring.

It was here. Afraid to believe, she slowly rose, and lowered her phone, obviating the distraction so she could use both ears to guide her toward the sound.

She stepped out of the room into a narrow corridor carpeted by dust and debris. She turned her head, closed her eyes and listened.

The phone was not in the house.

The sheds then, maybe.

She stepped back into the room she had just left and peered out through the window, straining to see through the grime. Annoyed, she scrubbed a rough circle clear with her sleeve. Looked out again. Scanned the yard, but saw nothing, not even the Sheriff.

Then finally, she located the source of the sound.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Cold filled her.

Danny’s phone was out there, ringing, and now she could see it too. It was on its back, display facing up, the violet glow granting an eerie luminescence to the inside of the Sheriff’s car.

“Hell of a way to go,” Beau said as he lowered himself to the ground, one bloody hand pressed against his belly.

Finch was breathing, but only just. Every inhalation felt like he was drawing boiling water into his lungs; every exhalation felt like waves of ice. He couldn’t move, and didn’t try. The mere idea of it made him want to throw up.

Beau sat back against the tree. “Kids,” he said. “Who’d have believed it.”

“You would,” Finch said hoarsely, and tried to smile. He was on his back, the ground cold beneath him. The shaft of the final arrow protruded from his stomach. Blood ran freely. “You could probably have told me how this was going to go right down to the last detail.”

Beau said nothing, and for a moment Finch assumed he had died, but then he spoke softly. “I could, but it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”

Finch’s smile faded.

“Was it?” Beau asked.

“No.”

“You find what you were lookin’ for down here?”

“I think it found me.”

“Deep,” Beau said and chuckled. It quickly turned to a fit of coughing. “Shit…Any time you’d like to call 911 is fine by me. I’m not dyin’ here or nothin’. Unless you want me to do the honors.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Start with: We’re dyin’. They’ll probably take the ball and run with it after that.”

“Then what?”

“Then wh—? Shit, now I get why people in movies tell dyin’ folks not to talk. They talk shit is why. They’ll send someone to patch us up.”

“So we’ll be in full health in prison. Two dead kids lying out here, Beau.”

Beau started to respond, then thought better of it.

“I’m sorry,” Finch said. “I fucked this all right to hell.”

“It was pretty much the only way it could go, right?”

“Guess so. But I’m sorry for bringing you down here.”

“Hey,” Beau told him. “You don’t owe me no apologies. I knew what I was doin’.”

“ I didn’t,” Finch said and smiled.

“Yeah, no shit. So now what?”

“I think,” Finch told him. “I’m just going to lay real still and rest for a while.”

Beau shifted and moaned in pain. “You always was a lazy sonofabitch. I’m gonna try and get my ass to that cabin. Maybe they got a first aid kit or somethin’ so I can sew my stuffin’ back in. Hell, maybe they even got a phone.”

They hadn’t seen any telephone poles on the way in, but Finch didn’t bother pointing that out. Beau already knew, but talking and thinking was better than dying any day of the week.

“Maybe they’ve got a mini-bar,” he continued. “And a Jacuzzi. Hell, I bet these boys got their own game room. Didn’t see any, but that don’t mean they ain’t there.”

“Turntables and a karaoke machine,” Finch added.

“Yeah, and a waterbed, with pink cushions and silk sheets.”

Finch laughed despite the pain. “Heart-shaped.”

Beau snorted. It looked like it hurt. “Barry White on Dolby surround.”

Though the pain was unbearable, Finch couldn’t stem the mirth that rippled through him. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Why would you want to?” Beau asked. “They’re not much to look at.”

“Aw shit,” Finch said, and his voice cracked. “We failed, man.”

“We thinned the herd,” Beau told him. “It’s all we’ve ever done. Tried to reduce the threat, just like in the desert. Certain things just are, you know. Bad things. And nothin’ will ever stop them. Even if we’d wiped these fuckers off the planet, there are a million others just like them out there, preyin’ on people whenever the mood takes them. We weren’t gonna make a difference down here, Finch. No matter what we did.”

“It might have made a difference to us.”

“To you,” Beau said. “Not me. This was never my fight. It’s like that friend you have when you’re in high school whose younger brother gets jumped. The friend organizes a lynch mob and without a second thought you agree to go kick the livin’ shit out of a bunch of strangers. You do it because it’s important to someone , and because maybe the violence appeals to you on some level you prefer to keep hidden, even from yourself.”