John Lutz - Bloodfire

He stood leaning on his cane, putting on a rapid-breathing act, as if he were exhausted from the walk over rough terrain. His daily bouts with the ocean had given him stamina. He could take this. This and more. He glanced up. Saw no stars. He and Beth looked at each other with blank faces that denied panic. They were wrapped in thick foliage in the deep swamp.

“Over there,” B.J. said. He shoved Carver toward a blacker shadow just off the road. High and boxy. It was the knobby-tired Blazer.

Carver and Beth sat on the rubber-matted floor in back while Junior kept the Uzi trained on them. B.J. drove.

The inside of the Blazer smelled like oil and rotted fish. Tools or fishing equipment rattled around in a padlocked, battered steel box bolted to the floor behind the seats. Blackness pressed against the windows. There was no way to gauge direction, but the rumbling, bucking truck made several sharp turns. A front window was open, but it admitted only the saturated warmth of the swamp, along with mosquitoes, and occasional large beetlelike bugs that ricocheted crazily around the inside of the truck and dropped, buzzing and dying, on the floor.

After about fifteen minutes B.J. braked the Blazer to ajar-ring halt. The abrupt stop caused Beth’s head to bounce off the side window. She gave no indication she’d felt it.

Junior grinned in the shadows behind the black eye of the Uzi’s bore. Said, “Home.”

B.J. got out first, then stood behind the Blazer while Carver and Beth crawled out the back. Beth helped Carver until he was standing with his weight bearing down on the cane. For a moment her mouth was near his ear and he thought she might whisper something, but she was silent.

They were in a clearing lit faintly by moonlight and surrounded by saw grass and towering cypress trees. There was a rambling, flat-roofed shack with a falling-down porch. A very old, block-long Cadillac was parked in front of it. Off to the left was a post-and-wire fence. The posts jutted crookedly from the ground like spindly broken fingers, but the wire was taut and appeared barbed. A cluster of small animals stood inside the fence. Goats, Carver thought, though he could only make out vague shapes in the moon shadows.

He knew they were a long way from civilization here. A long way from help. Beth seemed to sense it, too. She shivered beside him in the hot swamp air.

Junior was still holding the Uzi. Still grinning. His porcine little eyes were glittering diamonds in the moonlight. “Know what we use them goats for?” he asked.

Carver said, “Not keeping the grass short, I bet.”

“There’s a bet you’d win,” B.J. said. He was waving the rifle barrel slowly to sweep the space between Carver and Beth. He could nudge the barrel either way and put a bullet through one or the other in an instant. Carver thought he might be able to inch near enough to lash out with the cane, maybe knock the rifle aside or out of B.J.’s grip, but then brother Junior would open up with the Uzi. The Brainards had it figured. This was their game.

Junior said, “We take them goats one at a time an’ stake ’em out at night at a place near here. ’Gators hear ’em when they bleat, come up outa the swamp to feed on ’em. When a big enough ’gator’s busy with his meal, B.J. an’ me open up with rifles an’ get us enough alligator hide to make somebody a suit.” He rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheek, looking for a moment as if he were chewing a wad of tobacco, then spat. “Killin’ ’em might be illegal, but they’s good money in ’gators,” he finished, as if defending his poaching.

“Not to mention fun,” B.J. said.

Junior said, “Gonna be the most fun tonight.”

Carver felt his good leg turn to rubber. He leaned hard on the cane. Beth moved closer to him, so her hip and thigh were touching his. She’d realized the direction of the Brainards’ revenge. He could feel the vibration of her trembling.

She said, “You bastards!”

Junior giggled, sounding like a hog that had been tickled.

B.J. said, “Save your insults for the ’gators, nigger.” He motioned with the rifle barrel. “Now, the two of you walk straight ahead, into the swamp. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Beth moved slowly while Carver limped beside her, along what seemed to be a narrow path. Leaves brushed his arms and face. Something that felt like a web settled on his neck and he brushed it off. His fingers touched a large insect for an instant; brittle wings whirred and he heard it buzz and drop to the ground behind him. A beetle like the ones that had flitted into the Blazer? “Walk on. . walk on,” Junior muttered. Carver set the tip of his cane carefully. The ground was getting softer, soggy. Off on either side of the path, he could hear things moving in water. The swamp lapped at the saw grass and the exposed roots of the giant cypress trees that twisted grotesquely in the darkness. One of the brothers shoved Carver forward when he paused to find a dry spot for the tip of his cane. Carver almost fell. He caught himself by levering the cane into the damp ground. It made a sucking sound when he withdrew it from the mud. Beth said again, “Bastards!”

B.J. produced a flashlight from where it was stuck in his belt beneath his shirt. He switched it on, then swept the beam from side to side like a lance that met hard shadow and was turned away. Blackness and thick foliage curved around them. Once, Carver was sure the yellow beam swept past a pair of luminous eyes. Beth hadn’t seen them; she was busy helping Carver maintain his footing on the softening earth.

“They’s quicksand around here,” Junior said, and giggled again. He was up for something tonight, was Junior.

They walked on toward the center of the darkness.

After what seemed like half an hour they were in another clearing. This one was smaller. A tall, angled tree grew near the middle of it. The grass was flattened around the tree. The flashlight beam lingered on a thick rope wound around the trunk.

B.J. said, “This here’s the place, folks.”

Junior moved around to stand in front and off to the side of Carver. He aimed the Uzi at him at gut level and said, “You move, asshole, I’m gonna cut you in half. Leave you for ’gator food.”

B.J. planted a hand in the center of Beth’s back and shoved her toward the tree. Pushed her again as she stumbled and tried to catch her balance. On her knees, she glared up at him in the moonlight, then spat at him. He raked the rifle barrel across her head. A trickle of blood, black in the dim light, snaked down her cheek. He dug the long barrel into her back, forcing her to lie flat on her stomach in the beaten down grass. Carver noticed a bare white bone on the ground near her left shoulder. Helpless rage flared in him as he looked into Junior’s fat grinning face.

Spreading his feet wide, B.J. stretched out an arm and nimbly unwound about five feet of the rope that encircled the tree. Then he knelt with his knee in the small of Beth’s back and skillfully used the rope to bind her wrists behind her. It was like an event at a rodeo; took no more than half a minute.

B.J. stood up, letting the rifle point at the ground as he stared down at Beth. He smiled dreamily in the moonlight and said, “She ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not ever again.”

Beth sat up and twisted her body awkwardly. Struggled against the rope for a moment and seemed to realize she couldn’t escape. There was no way to free her arms. Her body bent, she waddled in a circle around the tree to unwind the rope, but it was knotted so only a few more feet played out and she couldn’t stand upright.

B.J. stepped close to her and slapped her hard on the cheek. Then he gripped the top of her blouse and ripped it halfway off. The parting material made a sound like a hoarse whistle.