S. Cedric - Of Fever and Blood

The girl’s name was Eloise Lombard, she was sixteen, and she knew she was going to die. Her abductors were going to kill her. That was obvious now.

When they dragged her here, giving her no chance to defend herself, when they tore off her clothes piece by piece until she was totally naked, and when they bound her wrists and ankles before throwing her onto a sticky mattress, she still hoped they only meant to rape her. That thought was unbearable enough. But deep inside, where the soul never lies, she knew. What they were going to do to her when they came back would be much worse than rape.

She saw the brownish-red puddles in the farmyard. It was blood, and there was plenty of it everywhere.

They had done it to other girls before her.

And soon-very soon-it would be her turn.

Bound and helpless, Eloise started to cry again.

Maybe for the hundredth time, she tried pulling on the straps that held her down. The ties bit into her skin as she tugged. It hurt. Eloise kept trying, jerking, leaning forward, with strength born of desperation.

She was shaking from the cold, too. The room wasn’t heated. Goose bumps rose on her naked legs and genitals. On her breasts, too. She had once been proud of her generous curves. Now they filled her with shame. Roman Salaville had touched her-everywhere-while he had held her down so his brother, Claude, could tie her wrists.

Better to be dead already than to feel that man’s calloused hands on her skin.

There was a window in front of her, but the shutters were closed and allowed in only a few weak rays of light. In the partial darkness, Eloise could make out a ceiling with heavy beams, typical of rural houses. The only piece of furniture was a wooden chest of drawers with a large broken mirror on it. Turning her head, she could see a door on one side of the room and a second one on the other side. Both were ajar. She assumed the one on the right led into the rest of the house. Her abductors had brought her here from the farmyard through the door on the left.

For the length of a fantasy, she felt the straps loosening up and freeing her. She imagined herself running away, crossing the blood-soaked farmyard, clambering over the fence and making it to the road. She would have to wait for a car to pass by. She would be saved.

The fantasy did not last.

Eloise Lombard was not stupid. She knew none of this could happen. The Salaville farm was on a deeply wooded mountainside where no one ventured. Here there were only steep fields, huge trees, and chaotic rocks. No other house could be found for miles. And no one ever visited the two brothers. They had always lived in seclusion, like animals.

No one would ever come to help her.

The thought brought more sobbing.

Was this some sort of punishment? An irrational guilt had already sunk its fangs into her heart. But what the hell could she have done wrong? School had been on break, and she had just gotten tired of staying home alone, where she was totally bored, as any sixteen-year-old girl would have been. She had called Lucie Jourdain, and when her friend invited her over to watch videos, she jumped at the opportunity to turn a miserably gray October night into an enjoyable evening. She left her parents a note on the kitchen table and jumped on her bicycle.

It was late in the season. It had rained all morning and part of the afternoon, but it wasn’t too cold. Eloise concentrated as she pedaled to avoid skidding on the slick road.

She was only a block away from Lucie’s house when she noticed the SUV following her.

At first she thought the driver was lost. He was creeping along, as though looking for the right house. It made sense. This was a cookie-cutter neighborhood, where all the homes looked alike.

When the SUV crept closer, she figured the driver wanted to pass and was just being careful. The engine grumbled right behind her. At the corner, she stopped and planted a foot on the ground so the vehicle could pass.

Instead, it also stopped, its engine roaring. The back door flew open, and a man jumped out. He was fat, wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt that strained to hold his massive gut.

She knew him. His name was Roman Salaville. Once in awhile, he came to the supermarket to give Mr. Ortega a hand at the meat counter. People said he lived in the mountains with his brother, and everyone agreed that the Salaville boys were odd. Their parents had left to settle somewhere in Spain almost ten years earlier, leaving the farm to their sons, and nobody had heard from them since. Roman and Claude were in their early twenties at the time. According to Lucie Jourdain, they had a serious drinking problem, and both had already spent time in a psych ward. Lucie’s father had told her this. He had it on good authority-he worked at Saint-Vincent Hospital.

Right away, Eloise knew something was wrong. Why was Roman out here at this time of night? She didn’t like his appearance, hunched over as though he didn’t want anyone else to see him.

“Mr. Salaville? Can I help you?”

She glanced down the street. It was deserted. Reflexively, she put her right foot on the pedal, ready to get away as quickly as possible. But in the next instant she felt the helpless anguish of a small animal about to be overtaken by a predator. Everything was happening too slowly. Part of her brain registered that Roman’s shirt was torn. She could clearly see the hair in his armpit. A layer of fat hung over his belt, jiggling with his every movement.

She could smell the stench on him, too. It reminded her of Mr. Ortega’s meat counter, only more pungent. It was the reek of rotten meat.

But worse still was his gaze, what glistened in the man’s small black eyes.

Like he was eyeing an ice cream cone and intended to swallow it in one bite.

“Don’t! Don’t do that. Get away!”

The fat man lunged at her.

Eloise tried to move back. She screamed. The man’s hands clutched at her and then snatched her off her bike effortlessly. Captive in his powerful arms, she couldn’t struggle. She couldn’t even scream. The man clamped his huge hand over her mouth, jamming her lower lip against her teeth. She tasted her own blood as it flowed onto her tongue.

Then he dragged her into the back of the SUV, as his brother stomped on the gas.

They drove a long time, following small roads across the countryside without passing another vehicle. All during the ride, fat Roman Salaville kept her tight against him. He mashed his filthy lips against her neck, against her hair. She felt the man’s hand slide over her breasts to squeeze them. She said nothing. She just cried, painful tears. They tasted like blood.

And now they were going to kill her. It was so clear.

Eloise heard a noise. It snapped her to the present.

Footsteps, in the adjoining room.

Then a faint creaking.

She turned her head.

The door on the right was opening slowly. The hinges groaned.

Eloise stiffened.

It wasn’t the Salavilles.

It was an animal.

It pushed its head through the door, and then its smooth figure slithered into the room.

A dog . That’s what Eloise thought at first. The beast looked like a dog, black and scrawny, its hair mangy, its eyes like embers.

But it wasn’t a dog.

Not at all.

The wolf slinked closer.

She could smell its fetid breath, see its yellow fangs.

The beast’s small red eyes glared at her, as though they contained all the evil in the world. In their depths, Eloise recognized the same spark of insanity that burned in Roman Salaville’s eyes.