Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

“I’m coming, Father!”

Something made him start running. It had been raining all week, and his shoes sank into the wet ground with each step.

“The truck, son! Do you see the truck?”

The boy ran a bit farther and then spotted the pickup’s dim silhouette about fifty feet away. Leaning downhill, the truck looked like a bull with its head lowered, ready to charge. He could see that its bed was filled with freshly cut four-foot sections of a tree.

“Yes-I see it!”

“Come to the truck! Come around!”

His father lay on his back, pinned beneath the left rear tire, which rested on his thighs. The upper half of his father’s body was visible in the moonlight, but his lower legs were obscured by the truck’s wheel. To the boy, his father looked like some mythological creature, a half man who must have angered the gods.

“I can’t move, son. The truck got stuck. I was trying to jam some wood under the tires when the brake slipped.” Rising from the waist with a growl, he pushed against the tire but couldn’t free his legs. He lay back down, his chest rising and falling violently. “Come pull me out.”

The boy moved behind his father, crouched down, and put his arms around his chest.

“Now pull, son, on three-pull hard! One, two, three!”

With a roar, his father shoved against the tire again and the boy pulled. But his shoes slid from under him in the mud and he fell.

“Again, son. Try again.” The boy got back up, arms tight around his father. “One, two, three!”

They pulled and pushed, but the result was the same. His father flopped back into the boy’s lap. Exhausted, they huffed in unison, drizzle tapping at their faces.

“What are we going to do, Father?”

“Find some rocks and branches and jam them under the other three tires. Then try and drive the truck forward. Remember how I taught you?”

The drizzle was turning to rain again. As the boy went about his task, he tasted the autumn decay in the air and felt it underfoot beneath the leaves and twigs. He shoved his gatherings beneath the tires and then got into the truck. He had to slide down in the seat so that his feet could reach the gas and brake. He could see his father in the side-view mirror.

“I’m ready, Father!”

“Turn the key-but don’t touch the gas yet.”

The boy worked the ignition, and the engine hacked to life.

“Put the stick on ‘D,’ and then press the gas gently. When you feel the wheels turning, press just a bit harder. Go ahead-do it!”

The boy pushed down on the gas pedal slowly, and the truck began to shudder. He could feel the tires starting to turn, but the truck did not move forward. A low growl began to claw its way out of his father. The boy watched him in the side-view mirror, fists dug into the mud.

“Don’t stop!” his father shouted.

The boy pressed harder and the tires began to spit mud, splattering the mirror. His father’s torso twisted in its prison, but the truck would not budge.

“More! Harder!”

The boy had to tighten his grip on the wheel as the vibrations increased. His father’s growl rose to a bellow. The boy checked the mirror again and saw bits of bright red mixed into the specks of mud.

He jumped from the cab, ran to his father, and knelt beside him. His father lay coated with muck and blood, ragged breath coming from open lips.

“No more, Father-you’re bleeding! The wheel is tearing you up!”

“We’ll wait till the rain stops and try again.”

“Father, let me go down the mountain. I could find someone and bring them back.”

“No! You will not leave this mountain. It’s not time yet.” His father paused to catch his breath. “There’s a rifle in the truck. Bring it to me, son.”

“Why?”

“Wolves, and the bears. They know when things are hurt. And they can smell blood. Now bring me the rifle and then go home.”

“I want to stay here with you.”

His father’s eyes found his. Raindrops had cleared thin, meandering paths down his father’s dirty face.

“Father…” The boy was silent for a moment. “Does anyone know I’m here?”

“The world knows nothing of you. That is my gift to you.” He coughed, and then spat blood. “You are no one.”

Something started to tighten in the boy’s chest. His head ached, and he felt his heart pounding.

“Father…” he began.

But his father would not let him continue. He reached up and grabbed hold of the boy’s jacket.

“You’re my son, and I’ve given you what you needed.” He walloped the boy across the face, but the boy did not cry. His father pulled him chin to chin. “You see? No tears. Remember: better to be strong than to be loved.”

His father closed his eyes and turned his head away. The boy got to his feet, walked to the truck, and climbed inside.

Ray entered the session room and came over to join Hall and Dalton.

“Jesus, what the hell is going on?” Ray asked. “Is he asleep?”

“I wouldn’t call it sleep,” said Dalton. He turned to Hall. “Should I try and bring him out of it?”

“No,” said Hall. He put a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and winced at his strong inhalation. “Give him a few more minutes. Let’s see what happens. Maybe we can use it.”

The boy shot up awake in the truck. The sudden burst of screams mixed with guttural grunts jerked his eyes to the mirror, and he saw dark shapes thrashing about near the back wheel. He grabbed the rifle and jumped out. The grunting stopped; two pairs of copper eyes flashed at him, and then the wolves went back to work, heads jerking violently as teeth ripped flesh. His father’s howling began again, his arms flailing, his fists useless. The boy raised the rifle and fired. The blast sent the wolves running, and the recoil kicked the boy down on his back. He lay there for a moment, breathless, staring up at the huge, scarred moon resting precariously on the tops of the pines. Then he sat up and moved to his father’s side.

The boy watched his father’s chest rise and fall very slowly, as if a great invisible weight lay upon it. With each ascent, parts of him caught the moonlight and glistened dark burgundy; with each descent came a soggy gurgle, leaking life.

His father’s right arm rose at the elbow, beckoning. The boy leaned closer and saw that the wolves had torn away his father’s coat and taken parts of his shoulders and arms. His left cheekbone gleamed white beneath the moon. His mouth opened and blood trickled out.

“The pain,” he gasped.

“What can I do, Father?”

“Where is my knife? Give it to me.”

The knife lay in the mud. The boy put it in his father’s hand. His father’s arm rose, but there was no strength in him, and his fist, clutching the blade, fell feebly upon his chest.

“Help me.” His eyes wandered in their sockets until they found his son. “Help me.”

“How? I don’t understand.”

His father’s forefinger rose an inch and tapped at his chest. “Here.”

The boy shook his head rapidly back and forth. “No!” he said, his voice a whimper. “No, I won’t do it!”

“Do as I say, son.”

The boy was crying now. “Father… please!”

Geiger’s audience leaned forward at his muttering.

“What did he say?” Hall asked Dalton.

“He said, ‘Father, please.’”

“Look,” Ray said, pointing. “He’s crying.”

Tears leaked from the corners of Geiger’s closed eyes, sliding down his cheeks and turning pink when they mixed with his blood. Suddenly he began to shudder violently, his body quaking in its restraints.

“Wake him now?” asked Dalton.

“No,” said Hall. “Not yet.”

His father eyed the boy’s tears, and then his face twisted into a mask of disgust.