J.T. Warren: Blood Mountain

For now, he would stay out of the way. Trail them up the mountain. Hide in the distance. Wait for his opportunity.

Like when the rats came out. He could spend hours waiting in the dark of his basement. His hearing would get fuzzy and then adjust to the silence. His eyes would find the outline of the furniture and then gradually reveal their hidden dimensions. If he waited long enough, his senses grew super keen.

Then the rats had no chance.

Sometimes he killed them outright. Other times he amputated their legs and then gradually sliced open their bellies to see how long they would keep fighting to live.

The struggle could last for some time.

He would trust in his patience, in his senses, in his self-control. In the power the universe had given him.

That was easy to do when his mind wasn’t flooded with images of the girl on her knees before him, mouth wide. In those fantasies, her eyes were black holes that cried tears of blood.

Like the tears the trees cried on the mountain.

The girl and her father were at a table in one of the windows. The glare from the sun painted the girl in a holy aura like a giant halo.

Two teenage boys were smoking on the opposite side of the front stairs. They were laughing about something.

Victor got out of the car and opened his trunk. He checked his supplies. He hoped the rifle would not be necessary. He had never fired one. It was the same kind Hugo Herrera had used. He must have been quick, reloading and firing to kill five people without anyone stopping him.

Too quick to almost be unbelievable. Why didn’t anyone try to stop him?

Because in those final minutes, everyone in that diner knew the bell of a special hour had rung. People spend lifetimes looking forward to things but when destiny catches up with them they are helpless.

We are all helpless before the Great Plan.

Victor caressed his backpack. The hunting knives were in there. Set of seven. Each sharpened and polished. Sometimes he stared at his reflection in those blades and imagined blood traversing the grooves like open veins.

He grinned.

EIGHT

The teenage boys were gone. On the table, they left one dollar. Dad looked so sad and helpless that Mercy’s tears almost returned full force. When he began to apologize and call off the camping expedition, Mercy shook her head like Mom used to and said she was sorry, that she wanted to go on this trip with him, she really did.

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” Dad said. “It’s not going to rain.”

He was trying.

She picked at the remainder of her meal.

Outside, the two teenage boys were walking across the parking lot toward the far end. Their tight jeans with the sagging butts looked ridiculous. They probably didn’t have a car. Maybe been up all night drinking, talking about sex. They were assholes, but boys had it easier. Living the bohemian way came naturally to them. Ratcheting up sexual escapades like they were collecting baseball cards. Virginity was a grease stain needing to be wiped clean.

Joel had not pressured her. He had given her intense physical pleasure. The first time he went down on her she was appalled and horrified, afraid he would comment on her smell, but those worries vanished in a full-body tingling sensation. She was nervous returning the favor and had done her best imitation of what a porn woman would do. Even after a month of similar exchanges, he denied her the full pleasure of his sex because he had found someone new and he didn’t want to take advantage of her.

How wonderfully noble of him.

“We can talk about anything,” Dad said. “I know I’m your father and that makes it weird sometimes, but I am here for you. I won’t judge you.”

He meant well but it made her feel even more like a little girl. She was supposed to be a woman, a college-educated woman, not some teen fretting over boy issues.

“I know,” she said. “I’m thinking about Mom.” Ironically, talking about Mom was a preferable discussion.

Dad’s face paled. “It was hard. But you were so wonderful, honey. So strong.”

“It’s fine, Dad.”

“No. I mean it. Without you, I would have fallen apart. My little girl saved me.”

“I was a mess.”

“You were so strong. There is a lot of your mother in you. I hope you know that.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Gradually, their solemn faces brightened until he made that stupid walrus face and she managed a giggle. Like when she had been young.

The boys were almost at the far end of the parking lot where a small car with dark splotches of rust on its side waited, the trunk open. The guy from the bookstore was standing there, gesturing for them to approach, like he had something really wonderful to show them.

The boys came around the car on either side like jackals. All three stepped behind the open trunk lid.

“You don’t have to keep things bottled,” Dad said.

“I’m just looking at the mountain.”

Dad appreciated the view for a moment. “A little bare right now but in a few weeks the trees will be lush. By then, lots of people will be up there. The trails will be littered with wrappers and plastic bottles.”

Going up Blood Mountain was a rite of passage for many people in Stone Creek. Parents took their kids up there as infants. Boys shot their first deers up there. Teenagers gathered to drink and have sex up there. Or so she heard.

“This time of year is why the mountain gets its name,” Dad said.

The boys moved behind the curtain of the trunk. A jagged rust scar marked it like a battle wound on a soldier’s face.

“All the pine trees. They start excreting around now. Change in the temperature or something. Sap is deep red. Tourists come to see it. The Great Bleed, it’s called.”

Dad had been stumbling around the Internet again.

In elementary school, kids said the mountain got its name from all the Indians that were slaughtered up there when the white settlers founded Stone Creek. In high school, the story had something to do with a hook-armed psychopath who liked to kidnap teenage girls up there. He’d rape them and hang them naked upside down from the trees. He would slice their throats with a hunting knife and watch them bleed out. Even a teacher once supported the story. “Lesson is, girls,” the teacher said, “don’t go camping.”

“The Great Bleed?” she asked. She thought of the first time she got her period. Thankfully, Mom had still been very much alive.

“It’s what they say.”

“Who?”

“They.”

“Can’t trust everything they say, Dad.”

“You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked like she were debating getting on a roller coaster she’d finally gotten tall enough to board.

“Yes, Dad.”

Outside, one of the boys fell to his knees.

NINE

The boys said they wanted to see what he had in the trunk, like they were cops. He opened the case and pointed to each of the seven knives. The skinning knife, the work knife, the Tanto knife . . . They were each five inches long with wooden handles that gleamed.

“Know anything about knives?” Victor asked.

The boys stood on either side of him. They made stupid noises and laughed like they were retarded. They weren’t, though, they were just kids. Smelled like fire and bourbon.

Victor pointed to one of the knives. “See that? It’s the gut hook. Jam the knife in and drag that hook across. Spill the insides. Yank them out if needed.”

“That’s fucked,” one of them said. He was slightly taller than his buddy but just as skinny.

Victor removed a felt case from his bag. He unfurled it in his hand. The eight-inch knife sloped to a curved point. That made it easier for skinning an animal without hacking up the meat. The straight side was serrated. That was for splitting through ribcages. Just above the handle, VD had been carved into the metal.