Andrew Kaufman - The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted - A Psychological Thriller

“Where are you taking us?” CJ asked, her voice shaky.

“Never you mind on that, Missy,” he said, “but not to worry. You’ll find out soon enough. Turn again, handsome.”

The deputy took a sharp left onto another dirt road. A few hundred feet later, he headed down an embankment and continued on. The farther we drove, the thicker the brush, the rockier the road, and the deeper into trouble I knew we were getting.

About five minutes later, Bill directed the deputy up a gravel drive and past a large sign that read B&D Meat Processing Inc . I could see the plant ahead; the place looked rundown, like it hadn’t been open for years.

“That’s right, boys and girls!” Bill said, his voice filled with a peculiar sort of enthusiasm. “We’re taking a little field trip to the Meat Puppet’s Ball. Gonna have us some good times. I can hardly wait.”

The car pulled to a stop.

“All righty folks,” Bill said. “Fall out. Now’s when the real fun begins.”

He made us line up against a concrete wall, began pacing back and forth, then, as if hit with a sudden thought, said, “ Jeeze-us. Where the hell are my manners? Thanks for the help, deputy. You can go now.” Then calmly, he put the barrel against the young man’s head and blew his brains out.

The blast echoed in my head, echoed everywhere. The deputy dropped to the ground, face down, blood and brain matter staining the wall where he’d stood. CJ began sobbing. I closed my eyes as tight as I could, wanting it all to go away, wanting this to be some bad dream. It wasn’t. It was real. It was hell, and I knew we were next.

“Okay, friends,” he said, shoving the deputy’s body out of his way with one foot, his voice with an overly enthusiastic kick to it, “here’s how it’s all gonna go down. Y’all get in line, Gossip Girl in front, Wonder Boy behind. Gossip Girl raises her hands just above her shoulders, palms up, and Wonder Boy places his—palms down—on top of hers. Then we move forward. Do not let your hands become separated from one another at any time or you both get dead in a hurry just like our friend here. Understood?”

Neither of us said a word. CJ was still trembling and crying. I don’t know what I was doing.

He shoved the gun barrel into my ear. “I said , understood?”

We both nodded.

He continued, “Now let’s see how good y’all are at following directions. Move it!”

With hands joined together, we moved forward until we came to a pair of rusted steel doors. Bill held one open and motioned us through with his gun. Then he marched us down a long hallway with tiled floors and tiled walls. Our echoing footsteps were all I could hear, apart from the pounding of my own heart.

We came to another pair of doors. Once through, we moved into what looked to be the main processing plant.

I don’t know how long the place had been shut down, but a rancid odor still lingered. Row after row of conveyer belts ran along the ceiling, with stainless steel meat hooks dangling from them.

I took my attention to the far corner and saw two chairs positioned side by side. A roll of duct tape rested on one of them, and directly behind them was a third chair with a pair of semi-automatic pistols on it.

Clearly, he’d been expecting us, and clearly, he had plans.

I got that metal taste again, tried to ignore it, instead choosing to focus on how to get us out of this mess. How to survive.

“Wonder Boy, take a seat,” Bill said. “Missy, you tape his wrists together.”

CJ and I exchanged timorous glances, then moved forward. I sat while she taped my wrists. She tried not to do a good job. Bill made her sit while he taped her wrists, waist and ankles. Then he checked the tape on my hands. He gave CJ an unpleasant grin and taped me up as thoroughly as he’d done her.

I stole a glimpse at CJ. Her expression appeared stoic, but she was trembling something fierce. She caught my gaze, and in a split second, reality seemed to hit us both, telling us our lives were about to come to an end.

But not if I could help it. I looked around for something to use as a weapon. Looked up high along the walls for some heavy or sharp object, one I could possibly force down on him. There were old tools all over the place. The only question was how to get to them.

“Here we go, kids!” Bill said, interrupting my thoughts. He was standing before us now, grinning, eyes wide and animated: the face of a madman. A killer.

He said, “We’re going to have ourselves a good old-fashioned double execution. That sound like fun?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “But we’re adding a new twist. I’ve done a lot of these, you see, and they get…a little boring. Have to liven things up some, keep myself entertained, you know.” He raised his hand as if taking an oath. “No worries, folks. This ain’t my first rodeo. I’m a pro at this. Won’t screw it up. I’ll do ya’ right. Promise. Scout’s honor. Now here’s what I got planned.”

He began pacing back in forth in front of us, then he stopped and pointed toward the empty chair behind us with his gun. “I’m gonna take a seat right there behind y’all with my girls, Kitty and Miranda—better known as Smith and Wesson. Then I’m gonna sit a spell and think. And then I’ll blow one of your brains out first, and then I’ll let the other live just a little longer. Of course, that’s more for me than it is for you. See, it’s those few extra seconds of life that’ll put the fear of God in ya’, and I just love to watch that. Sometimes the person’ll wet themselves…or shit their britches. Sometimes both, even. I’ve seen it happen. I have.”

“You don’t have to do this,” CJ said.

“Well, darlin’, yeah, actually, I do. Oh, there was a point in time where that might’a been true. But that point’s done gone. You can blame yourselves for that. If y’all just could’ve left well enough alone, none of us would have to be here. But ya’ couldn’t do that, could ya’? Ace Reporter and his little sidekick had to start digging, had to try and figure it all out.” He turned to me. ‘‘‘Course, you didn’t quite figure everything out, now, did you, Nathan?”

Chapter Fifty-Three

A world I visit only at night. While I sleep.

A rundown shack surrounded by trees. An old white pickup parked alongside it. An angry storm brewing overhead.

This is how the dream always begins.

Thunderheads pick up speed, rolling through turbulent skies, casting a shadow of darkness over everything. The rain begins to fall, lightly at first, then with gathering intensity. A flash of lightning explodes, followed by a violent clap of thunder. The wind howls.

Even though I’m looking at the scene from outside the shack, I have a strong sense that inside there is chaos. Something bad is happening. Something evil.

I hear footsteps on a wood floor, someone pacing back and forth, rhythmic, like a clock ticking.

A door slowly creaks open, then slams. Next, two men’s voices. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but in the background I hear metal clanging; or is it glass? I smell something, too, something medicinal, sterile, like alcohol and gauze. Makes me anxious, frightens me.

A shadow slips quickly across the window.

Then suddenly I’m inside the shed. Laid out flat, the two men standing over me now, holding me down. I can’t move. I can’t see their faces—the room is too dark.