Vincent Zandri - The remains

That’s when I felt them on my legs.

The snakes.

Maybe I couldn’t see, hear or smell them, but I could feel their thick rubbery, legless bodies slithering over my lower legs, one after the other as if I were laid out atop a nest.

The garden snakes frightened me almost as much as Whalen. All that rain must have forced them out of their holes; out from their havens in between the rocks. They were crawling on me and I could not move. I was immobile, catatonic.

I had to move. I had to get out of there, get away from the devil, away from the snakes. Inhaling a breath, I issued a near-silent shriek and forced myself up.

A pair of snakes fell to the ground. I felt and heard the sound of their rubbery bodies coiling against the leaves and the pine needles. With the powerless flashlight gripped in my right hand, I shuffled through the thick woods. Not in any specific direction, but away from the snakes; away from the devil monster crashing through the trees.

Without warning, I fell.

The whirling current took hold of my body, drawing me into its center. I felt myself being pulled under, body spiraling, going down. I had no choice but to let myself go, be drawn under the surface of the drowning pool, be dragged along the rocky bottom of a rushing stream, spit out over the waterfall.

But something happened then. I didn’t free fall to the rocky stream-bed below. I found myself reaching out, clawing for something to grab onto, my nails bending back and tearing. Until I found a handhold in the form of a thick tree root that protruded from out of the cliff side.

The wide open valley lie a half mile away. Beyond it, my parents’ homestead. The farmhouse and the barn roofs were flash-lit by long spider-veined lightening strikes. To my left, the rushing stream water spewed out over the cliff edge. It shot off into mid-air before arcing downward, falling through the black night to the invisible rocks below.

To my right, the rock face. Positioning the toes on my boots, I searched for a foothold against the loose shale until I managed to locate some solid footing. Grip tight, I pulled and chinned myself up and over the tree root. When my head was above the rock-face’s edge, I raised my right leg, located a secure toe-hold.

Pressing my full weight down on the right foot, I let go of the tree root and thrust my right hand over the cliff edge. I then pushed the palm down flat onto the wet, gravelly floor. With my left hand still secured to the root, all I needed was to lift my body up and over the side.

It’s precisely what I started on when my right hand exploded in pain.

I faced my nightmare in the flesh. Whalen stood over me, green goggles covering his eyes, masking his face. He stood erect, body dripping rain water. I sensed him with every nerve and neuron in my body.

His right foot had come down on my right hand, boot heel crushing flesh and bone. The pain shot through my arm, passed the elbow and up into the shoulder, then up into my head. The entire right side of my body was on fire. I screamed, my voice howling into a night punctuated with rain, thunder and darkness. I heard my own voice echoing off the cliff-side, shooting out into the valley, out over the deep woods, out over the fields of tall grass, out over the valley and the farmlands.

I felt the pain with every exposed nerve in my body. I held to the edge, ran my free hand over the shale wall, searched for a chunk of loose rock. I located a piece about the size of my own hand. The rock was smooth on one side, with a sharp jagged edge on the other. I fit the rock into the palm of my left hand, gripped it with every ounce of my strength. Then, with one swift downwards swing of my arm, thrust the sharp edge into his foot.

He screamed, his high-pitched voice crying out into the deep night. He was the suddenly maimed monster. Whalen may have had the power to see in the night. But he never anticipated the chunk of sharp shale coming for his foot. He yanked his right foot out from under the rock, yanked it loose from the tip of the sharpened edge and fell flat onto his back.

The pain left me then.

There was only the bleeding and a rush of energy that shot up from the tips of my toes, entering into my limbs. I did not pull myself over the edge so much as leapt over it, landing directly on top of him.

I wasn’t me anymore. I’d become my sister.

It was as if Molly-her strength, her fearlessness, her courage-had entered into my body and my soul. Pressing knees against Whalen’s arms, I pulled the flashlight from my pant waist, raised it high. Using it like a club, I swung. There was the good feel of a tooth or maybe teeth breaking on contact, his lips popping, gums tearing. Two tubular incandescent eyes stared up at me while the monster once more screamed a high-pitched yodel that cut not only through the forest, but sliced its way into my skull and brain.

I loved every second of it. Molly loved every second. We’d been waiting for a chance like this for thirty years. Not even death was going to keep Mol from having her revenge.

I swung wildly, hitting the monster again and again. But the pain I inflicted seemed to do no good. Whalen lifted his head, spit blood into my face, and smiled. The devil smiled, worked up a gurgled laugh while swinging his right arm around so quick, I never saw the rock that slammed against my skull.

The tables had reversed themselves then. Now it was me who was on my back, left side of my head pounding in rapid pulses of sting.

I gazed up at green eyes.

“Kill me now!”

The air went abruptly still. The rain, the wind, even the lightning seemed to halt their fury as if God Himself were creating a still-life of the scene. Whalen wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, did it without the least bit of effort as though impervious to the pain.

He spit another wad of blood and spittle.

“Little… kitten… has… lost… her… mittens,” he whispered through clenched, broken, blood stained teeth. “Cry, cry, cry little kitten.”

From down on my back I stared up into the mechanical green eyes, at the rain water that dribbled down off his shaved head, down onto bloody lips. I tried to speak. But no words would come. Only the silent motion of a mouth opening and closing. As if responding to the silence, he reared back and away from me.

Just like that, the devil shot off into the night.

Down flat on my back, I sucked wet air through a gaping mouth. I opened my eyes, set my left hand onto the ground and pushed myself up onto my feet. Stuffing my damaged hand into my jeans, I approached the tree line.

Bushwhacking almost blindly through the thick greenbrier and second growth saplings, the sound of stream water grew more prominent with each step forward. I had no choice but to swallow the pain, ignore the five senses and focus instead on the anger, on the determination to reach Michael.

But there was something I had to do before anything else. My nose was broken. I couldn’t leave it like that. If I was going to get to Michael, I needed to breathe through it. Without thinking about it, I cupped the broken nose inside my two hands. Supporting the fleshy nostril portion between opposing thumbs, I sucked a deep breath through my mouth, cracked the cartilage back in place.

I released a strained shriek that shot off into the valley.

But when the sting went away, I sensed only a dull soreness where the skin was split.

There was one more thing I had to do. It dawned on me that maybe if I opened up the flashlight, shifted the batteries around, there’d be enough power left in them to give me light. Even if only for the few minutes it took to get to the house. That’s exactly what my father used to do when I was little and the power went out. He’d make the flashlight batteries last longer by shifting them around inside the tube. I unscrewed the end, poured the batteries out into my hand, reversed their original order and reloaded them into the tube. Holding my breath, I switched the light on.