The land whizzed past the road. Trees packed along just past the cracked asphalt reached high toward a spotless sky. Sunlight kissed the happy trees and beat the long dark snake winding amongst them. They blurred, the sky and leaves and trunk, blue then green then brown, then black, like endless strokes of a magical brush. Then came yellow, as Lenny’s head drifted to the warmth of his window.
‘Hey your SS uncle lives up here.’
‘What? No. He was government or something how can you remember that and not the turn we need to take?’
‘Right right. What was his name again?’
‘Fucking a lot of people were named Adolph back then. A lot of people.’
‘The best people even.’
‘Maybe some Columbine kiddo named Jules will hit the leaderboards and then we’ll see who’s laughing oh wait that’s a faggot ass bitch name nobody has.’
‘Maps are bullshit.’ Across the dash sat a huge mess of lines and colors flapping almost to the roof, and behind it Eddy. Lenny slid back with a smirk, which George, whose uncle did leave an impression, shared. The mirror reflected similar sentiment from the wheel. ‘This is fucking bullshit.’
‘Call shotgun get blasted.’
‘They’re your maps.’
‘They’re my dad’s fucking maps.’ More flapping. ‘Or grandpa’s honestly. I mean are we still going north? Have you seen signs?’
‘Natty?’ Rustling from a bag at George’s feet. A can floated across the back, which Lenny sent front bound with a wave.
‘Officer.’ Jules snatched it. ‘It’s all natural.’
‘Come on bro.’ Eddy shook his head and grabbed his own. ‘Do we have any with lids? Corona?’
‘Sorry your highness.’
‘Officer,’ Jules jerked the wheel, ‘It’s all good, I’m twenty one.’
It jerked again. ‘Alright fuck chill.’
‘How many cops are out here?’
‘What’s the over under on one?’
A rattle near the door, lost in the noise of conversation, drew Lenny from his slouch. And there, as he suspected, glowed a phone wedged deep between the seat. He reached, and fished it free. Wall after wall of text crossed idly by, until a new one dropped to interrupt them. A little illustrated picture, of a barn, and pudgy guy, and bunch of animals.
‘Oh shit.’ George snatched the phone. ‘You fucker.’
‘What?’ Eddy turned. ‘No fucking way.’ The map flew across the car, which swerved once more. ‘Django was less whipped.’
Jules stretched a futile hand to grab it. ‘Hockey stops for no one guys.’
‘Yeah?’ George caught a scroll in thumb. ‘I guess hockey is due for a toe sucking. And washing. And rim job.’
‘No way.’ Eddy reached too, but George held firm.
‘Any last words, Captain Cuck?’
‘Give me the phone. Now.’
‘Fucking drive.’ Eddy grabbed the wheel and a lurching Jules in either hand. ‘Captain.’
‘This shit is so pussy you almost can’t blame her.’
‘Now!’
The car spazzed with a screech. George slid the phone into Jules’ frenzied grasp before the rest came to collect. ‘Alrighty man you’ve got a problem and it’s got herpes straight up.’
‘No Gash George with the bitch advice blow me.’
‘I get bitches.’
‘Hogs don’t count.’ Eddy laughed.
They all did. But Jules stopped first, his eyes stuck to his phone. ‘What is this bullshit?’
‘What?’ George sat smiling. ‘Trouble?’
Rmbr 2 stay H2Od!
Emma leaned away, swiping the text.
Caroline spun around, clutching the passenger seat. ‘Who is that?’
‘It’s dad.’ Straight ahead Anabelle sat. With squinted eyes she searched the back, where Em sat huddled. ‘It’s always dad.’
‘Oh.’ Caroline swung back ahead with a bounce. She was tall, really tall, and pretty, strawberry hair, tall and thin since Anabelle met her years ago. ‘Why.’
‘No.’ Emma’s eyes darted around the car, her hand mashing the volume.
‘Because she’s not a slut Caroline.’ Peyton never looked over her phone.
‘Fuck you bitch.’
‘You would.’
Emma eased, as the winds seemed to blow elsewhere. But then a new message arrived, to rock the boat. A little illustrated picture, of a barn, and fat old guy, and bunch of animals.
Peyton puffed. ‘Mr. Dillon sending group texts Bell?’
Another text already peaked out behind it.
‘It won’t go away.’
‘What is it?’ Anabelle peered into her lap. ‘Like Sweet Smash?’
‘That’s not what it’s called.’
‘Oh really Em?’ Anabelle shot daggers through the mirror. ‘Jesus Christ.’ Her eyes lingered there, pressed against her as she said it.
‘Wait.’ Caroline brought her phone close. ‘There’s money.’
‘Coat hangers getting dull?’ Peyton’s phone hung limply I her hand.
‘Yeah your mom gave me hers but they were all worn out.’
Emma didn’t get it. Peyton was hot too, bleach blond. They both looked perfect. Her mom dressed ok too. So as the tongues lashed Emma tapped the message. It expanded, with a little blurb hung with dollar signs toward the bottom.
Play Games. Have Fun. MAKE money. Join the Farm today, beat the games and reap your harvest. Prizes start from a thousand, with bonuses. Queue now!
Emma straightened. ‘It says a thousand dollars!’
‘Really.’ Caroline lifted her phone. ‘Well I’m in.’
Peyton shrugged. ‘Me too. Pods aren’t cheap.’
Emma hastily followed. A tap, then tap again through a new article sent a train of animals winding in a circle. Then maps opened, almost too quick to catch one last message.
Stay safe! If it’s wrong say no I’ll pick you up
‘Wait.’ Caroline almost yelled. ‘Mine froze.’
‘Mine too.’ Peyton turned. ‘Emma?’
Emma caught more daggers from the front. ‘I don’t know.’ The words latched in her throat. She pressed the home button, which did pop open a small window.
‘Oops?’ Caroline leaned against the seat, addressing the car. ‘It says Oops a phone will,’ She paused, ‘compromise, the games. Compromise?’
Anabelle was hurling swords now, huge blades slashing back through the car.
Emma shrunk behind the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t know.’ A last scan met Peyton’s eye before she curled up entirely.
‘It means break, Ms. America. Maybe an hour without your thirst machine won’t be so bad huh?’
In the quickly raised silence of the radio Emma watched their wagon bounce down the stretch of yellow. It left the line before a song, riding a tiny thread out into untouched green by a sadder, sparser tune. She whined, straining the notes through low long vowels over empty strums or broken synths cast deep into a well of echoes. Smooth roads soon left for lighter tunes, leaving crunch and rock to fill the space until they stopped.
‘Billie is amazing.’ Caroline threw her door and popped onto the dusty gravel with a cough.
‘I know.’ The door swung shut as Annabelle turned, before leaving herself with a hard slam and not a glance. ‘So mature.’
Emma snuck a peek, but Peyton had left too, so out she went at last. A steep bank hugged the roadside, sporting a tiny trail which Caroline took, with Annabelle in tow. A wisp floated from on ahead. Mint, maybe.
The top swallowed the girls. Emma scrambled behind, and summited, her hands snapping to knees.
‘This is creepy.’
Emma’s head rose. A big farm house stretched out ahead of a long yard beneath another sloping hill. Its wide porch held a single rocking chair by the front wood door. Double doors, and very tall.
Peyton shoved her hands into the pockets of pants, like sweats but soft, flowier, somehow they hugged her legs too. ‘Creepy like Jason.’ She started toward the porch.
‘He was a freshman that’s three years my dad’s five older than my mom.’
‘He tongued like eight girls. He kissed Heidy.’
‘I heard he was a sophomore.’ Annabelle watched Caroline turn, then trot on after Peyton.
Emma winced, but no look came. She shuffled across the yard, stuck to her phone where little searching eyes were caught creeping along above some bullets.
Emma reached the wide stairs up to the porch. The wood was dark, and groaned at her crossing. Voices escaped from within the wide entry hall through one of the big doors left open.
‘Where are we?’
‘It’s dark.’
‘This is crazy.’
‘It’s not that dark you’re blind.’
‘I think that’s good.’ Emma saw nothing but a rug beneath her feet, which seemed to stretch farther than any she had seen.
‘Huh?’
She continued, spying the walls, out wide to either side, also wood, also dark. Creaks escaped every step and again, marking her progress.
‘What?’
She almost crashed before daring a look, which seized in a hard glare from Anabelle.
‘What?’
‘Um.’ Emma broke free, searching the phone. ‘All we have to do is not get caught.’
‘Wait what?’
‘Like hide and seek Caroline Jesus Christ.’
‘Anabelle.’ Emma felt the glare return, and crush, though she dared not face it.
‘Caught by who?’
A new groan washed into the foyer. And another.
Caroline screamed. She ran. Anabelle followed. Peyton shot to a side and Emma split, sprinting off toward a new room with some chairs.
The distant hiss of wilting tones brought hand to ear. Swishing grass and weed below still shared the noise. Music was better loud, and loud music was better.
But the music had stopped. Travis tugged his lobe, earning a pop which loosed a quiet bud into his twitching hand. The right he fished directly, and spun in sifting fingers. Then the hand dived into his pocket, past his phone. No problem. A thousand bucks no problem at all.
One finger sunk deeper, probing shards now mostly pressed to powder. Plenty of time even without this little windfall. Around the mansion’s edge he stalked, around a corner to the front and down the length until some doors.
At stairs before the doors up came his empty hand. And phone, which Travis caught face up before it fell into the dirt.
The hand plunged back, trading the phone for a shard pinched between two fingers. Just a sample. Not a problem. Travis climbed the steps, which creaked and groaned, and groaned much louder.
A squeal escaped one of the doors. He barreled through, into a darkness. Footsteps fled in all directions out ahead, and in a quick glance a shadow sweeping out of sight.
The chase swiftly left the hall, rushing past a wide credenza into a length of room with chairs and a huge table. Lights like lamps hung high along the walls sprinkled dull rays across its top, finely set and unadulterated.
Travis’ hand crashed hard against the table, to swing his head beneath in one fell swoop. Nothing, so up he rose. Mice, that’s a grand, and a bunny that’s almost another. Could be two rabbits. Could be four. From the table the hand went back to its pocket for another dive. Three mice that’s a solid number that’s two grand only one rabbit.
Out the back doorframe of the long dining room waited some kind of relief which hid a kitchen tucked behind. Dust coated clean metal much younger than the house, with scarcely a nook or cranny bigger than pots or pans. Sweeping from here to there the back wall came without a clue, where a doorway held a winding sinking stair.
With its bannister and little metal frame he recognized the type. They were all over the pages of some magazine Meg liked. Travis crossed to it and descended, running a hand along the wood. They’d have a cellar, mahogany finish. Varnish. She would have one. She’d be fine.
The only light fell from above as Travis left the stair. He groped along the wall, deep into black, where a thick cobweb swept his face. He reached to tear it, purging the darkness with a click. The white tubes buzzed as they warmed, flanks of them, above a maze of shelves beyond the swinging yarn.
Off down the closest row was little more than views through empty shelves of many more. Only a pile near the corner, of cracked tubes and rusted pans and a broom and some bricks and splintered wood and pair of frothed batteries all thrown against a wobbling barrel barely sturdier than a kick might have hid anything. Up the next was just the same, and down, and up again.
Travis ducked to check under the shelves. He lifted a pounding head, sending a hand to raid his pocket. Two thousand, that was it. Four mice. His tongue jammed the stinging grains along his gums. A flowing bag sat hunched against the wall down the next row.
A shelf bumped Travis as he raced, and knelt, strewing its scattered contents across the floor. Mostly stuff in cans. Food. No food no time for food only two weeks.
‘One hour. She’d like dinner no problem two grand that’s enough it’s enough here see what the fuck did I tell you look two thousand that’s your cut they won’t take theirs she’ll be fine yes I’ll get a cellar baby you like this one here fuck it I got money no problem.’
Crashing somewhere behind snapped Travis’ head. He peered, back between the shelves where something rolled across the cold concrete. White knuckles gripped cans, green beans offered to the wall, which slipped and down they went. Along the ground an owl watched, a penetrating face searching somewhere above. It looked up, toward a pantry maybe or a cupboard. But no a higher depth held in its empty eyes. Toward the attic.
Travis turned from the mask, and rubbed his watery eyes, and brow, wiping the sweat along his shirt beside his pocket. Stay sharp, get the money and get out. Swift and cunning.
Bret crested the hill with eyes glued to the dirt. ‘Let’s go.’ He checked the slope behind his leg, and rose. ‘It’s a good one.’
Footsteps grew, and brought wheezing before they stopped. Bret studied the house, a giant old proud estate with porch to match. ‘This thing’s a plantation.’
‘Fuck this.’ Eve strained through heavy breaths. ‘It probably is.’
‘Damn hon you good?’ Bret started toward it. ‘The hill’s over.’
‘I am not going in there.’
Bret passed across the field, up to a set of wide steps. A single chair rested beside wide double doors. ‘Look at this.’
‘Bret no way.’
The doors were smooth, good handiwork, patterned but not too much. The porch creaked. They resisted too, excellent work, very sturdy must be cherry or maybe red oak.
‘Is that a butterfly?’
He pushed one open, splashing light along the darkness of a foyer. Good even swing, superb weight distribution.
‘Oh what you’re a carpenter now you took one class Bret get a grip.’ Eve walked ahead, and spun around. ‘I am not doing this.’
‘Babe you love escape rooms.’ Bret went to a wall, where a long banner hung nearly to the ground.
‘That was like four years ago.’
In the dark beyond the beams whatever stretched along their obscured lengths remained in shadow. Except by some light near the hall’s far end.
‘Bret.’
The light crept from behind, and ahead, meeting the white and black of the banners in turns. An intricate arrangement for sure, the foyer, with its rug and walls and distant lamp. More like a castle than room.
‘Bret hello?’
A doorway waited ahead, just past the last banner. Another held along the opposite side, and there across the middle a curving staircase wound around to meet somewhere above. Not a good one, this would be great.
‘A fucking text is all it takes to get you into some psycho mansion in the backwoods?’ Eve stood at the foyer’s middle. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Has it really been four years? Were you in college?’
‘How can you do this from a text are you fucking stupid?’
‘Wait right.’ Bret pulled his phone with a smile. ‘What are we doing?’
Bret’s smile widened.
‘Don’t even try it.’
He crossed to the hall’s middle between the winding stairs and threw an arm around her, down past the back. ‘Babe.’ Still pretty firm. Nice. ’We’re rabbits.’
Eve shirked him off. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘A couple grand maybe I will.’ Bret walked away, to lean against a tall cabinet positioned between the feet of the stairway.
‘No way.’
Bret tossed the phone. Slowly she paced toward him, head buried beneath the banners and the doors and the beautiful winding stair to who knows where. No cameras, or none in view, but they knew how to hide them. A couple hundred bucks to pay wouldn’t be crazy for all this. Must be good ones too, in such low light.
‘A couple grand why? Because it says so?’ Eve threw it back. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘Who cares look at this place.’ Bret knocked the wood behind him. ‘It’s perfect. Except for the wolves.’
‘Yeah perfect to get chopped up after some freak fucks me to death.’
‘Shit Eve I told you to get off those murder shows they’re porn for chicks. I mean our Yams could be anywhere.’ Bret yanked a cabinet door open, gestured, and slammed again. ‘Even here.’
‘Turnips. Shhh.’ Eve looked around. ‘Shut up.’
‘See.’ Bret turned to take the stairs. ‘You get it.’
Each step fell on carpet too short to reach across the broad stairway. The wood whined little here, if at all, so far removed from the elements. Bret bounced along a silent stair toward the top. Minimal warping, but also sturdier, and the oak along the banister did shine with the luster of renovation.
‘Hey? Bigfoot? Stomp harder next time maybe you’ll crash through to the dungeon if there’s no carpet.’
‘No chance.’ Bret stepped from the stairs, onto the foot of an immaculately paneled corridor. ‘Not in this extension.’
Stuff hung staggered along the walls, usually above some shelf or sideboard. Along the left came an old portrait, then at the right a wide plumed headdress of many colors wasted on the dim light. Then another portrait, and a landscape with some little red roofed houses on a hill.
‘Well at least our killer is a Spaniard.’
‘A Mexican you mean.’ Bret passed an old rifle. Military issue. WWII. ‘Didn’t Spain give up?’
‘Of all the dumb shit to say that’s up there.’
‘You’re the expert.’ Bret shrugged, pointing. ‘That’s not Mexican.’
‘Columbian, shithead. From all those documentaries remember? It’s like porn for guys oh wait.’
‘The kids are in good hands.’ Something different interrupted him. ‘Wow.’ An old record sat framed up on the wall. Yellow swirled over into orange behind the glass, and across its face a long scribble. ‘Signed?’ Bret approached, his breath spreading against the glass. ‘No chance this is signed. Hon? You know the B side in fact I bet you know the B side.’
‘Babe?’ Bret turned, to an empty hallway. More stairs hid there, just at the other side. With a smile Bret leaned into a run, across the corridor and up. The bunny wants a chase.
These creaked all the way, but up Bret flew, and doubled back, and out into a similar if wider space with doors flanking all along the long way down to a far distant window. ‘That might have been a Beach Boys!’
Eve jumped back to him, slapping a hand over his mouth. ‘I heard something.’ She released, backing away.
Bret nodded forward. ‘Ok.’ He slowly snuck, lifting again at any fuss from the floor. ‘Those yams won’t pick themselves.’
A door opened, far down, and out popped an old guy in leather suspenders and cowboy type hat with a satchel hung at his waist, and arm quickly tucked away out of sight. Bret snatched Eve’s arm. ‘Don’t move.’
‘What?’
‘He doesn’t know we’re rabbits.’
‘Who?’ Eve shirked his grip. ‘The fat hick eyeing us like steak? With a bag full of surgical stuff? You mean him?’
‘We could be anything.’
‘We could have been in California.’
‘What? Are you still mad about that?’
‘Not at all I love humidity and fucking racist murder mansions.’
‘I had a job, the margins were shit I told you that.’
‘We could have had a vineyard!’
The farmer inched toward them.
‘California blows.’ Bret watched him probe another step. ‘We’ve been over this.’
‘Fuck you Bret I hope he has a fucking axe behind his back.’
‘Wait look he doesn’t know.’ Bret took a single plotting step to match. ‘We could be wolves.’
‘You’re pathetic.’
Down past the farmer someone new tore into the hallway, slamming into a door. He collapsed with a rambling grunt.
‘Holy shit.’
‘He’s tweaked.’
A scream followed, from behind the door, which promptly opened. Out ran a girl, blond, in flowing sweats hugging her sprinting legs. Very nice.
Eve slapped him. ‘What the fuck, Bret. Really.’
The blond crashed into the farmer, spilling his bag across the floor. She picked one of the stuffed turnips as she ran, up the corridor toward them.
‘Bret?’ Eve slapped again.
She swept past, and down the stairs behind, with her snarling mumbling nimrod in tow. Bret smiled, already wincing. ‘I guess she wasn’t the fox then.’
CHEVEROLET spread across the lip above the truck’s bumper. It rolled across the gravel of a lot nestled at the highest spot for some distance any way. A couple vowels still clung, that were not etched only in the rust of metal lost.
Dale circled the lot before parking near the edge. With a breath he turned the engine and exited, onto wiry grass reaching from a long slope. Down there at flat again was a big house, and between a trail stretching on to it. At its foot, and Dale’s, sat a tan bag.
Games with hounds and wolves maybe, but never were there fights to be a farmer. Dale eased low, swinging the weighty bag onto his shoulder. A hat and overalls hid bundled beside a group of stuffed turnips. The overalls would itch, and the straw, already bent out of shape, might draw some blood, and anyway whatever kind of game needed dressing could go for a better hat and some genuine leather. Of course, last time Dale checked was long ago.
The trail never bent too steep to test the knees. Steady legs and watchful eyes kept the smooth dirt firmly beneath, through grass and mud until the hill was done. The house grew big, looming above as Dale crossed the field to it. Big enough to raise a family, or three, or just as well a single sad old fellow left to ponder all his empty distant rooms.
A lonely rocking chair nudged in a breeze, beside a door ajar. Creaking, weeping from the porch, from old labors of hands bygone marked every step, up to and through a door into a large dark foyer.
Dale trawled the satchel, where two small sacks of sand had burrowed deep into a corner. Like the kind kids kicked around in grassy fields hopped up on grass. SHOT was printed across both, which went into his back pocket, before he scanned the foyer once again.
The dark proved persistent, however, so off Dale walked into it. Away at the room’s end was a dim lamp, and the outline of some stairs which did invite. A carpet softened the crossing, to a tall cabinet tucked between what a further obscured outline proved to be this stairway’s other leg.
A ruckus arrived, and bounced about the hall. Dale froze in the unrelenting echoes, shooting a hand to the sacks until the thought of wolves and stories cut too short to turn young ears brought his hand elsewhere.
The cabinet did open, and in he went. Scream and holler replaced with trampling feet, first drifting off and then with the gasping breaths of drunken fugues just past the door. Light cut the back from a thin slice between the doors, so thin only any width toward the distant entrance was visible.
Eye glued to the slit Dale remained, watching an empty hall long after silence had returned. He smiled, at the chase, and any future chases in this huge and as it happened not so empty house. Even if drunk, or high or otherwise disposed what was some fun to him? What had it been for all those years of work and nights stuck in the light of the TV, when a curt word or slurred rage squelched any interruption, however earnest.
Dale shook his head, craning his miserable back to press the door. A good story this might be, but the richest story was a sham beside the bleak of truth.
New noise entered the hall. The cabinet swallowed again. From the front doors entered two silhouettes, whose speech scrambled across the hall. The bigger, a man presumably snuck out of sight, while his woman remained along the carpet for the approach. Louder came the muffled tones, the bickering, and then the words.
‘Don’t even try it.’
The man passed into sight. ‘Babe.’ A pause. ’We’re rabbits.’
The woman, pretty and young, pushed him. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘A couple grand maybe I will.’ The man left her. Dale recoiled, hugging the back as the far door leaned in the man’s weight.
‘No way.’
Past the man posted with crossed arms the light spilled, through the gap into Dale’s corner. A throb pulsed its protest down the back, where his crouch held on cramping legs. But any sound might scare the hare, or rabbit, or whatever would surely scatter before he found a shot.
‘A couple grand why? Because it says so? We’re leaving.’
‘Who cares look at this place.’ A knock wrapped the door. ‘It’s perfect. Except for the wolves.’
‘Yeah perfect to get chopped up after some freak fucks me to death.’
‘Shit Eve I told you to get off those murder shows they’re porn for chicks. I mean our Yams could be anywhere.’ The far door opened wide, and slammed again. ‘Even here.’
‘Turnips. Shhh. Shut up.’
‘See.’ His voice receded. ‘You get it.’
An arm sent forward toward the cabinet door, and the other to load a shot from his back pocket. Neither endured the screaming of his back. Somewhat erect he froze, until the terms of a body long neglected somewhat settled, long after any trace of darting hares.
Dale left the cabinet at last, spinning an arm. He was no hare, no young man anymore. Years of work traded the spirit for the coin, and to fill meager coffers at that. But really work had simply filled the time, such time, with all the means to justify neglect elsewhere. Such time, and now a once young man was not no young man anymore, but old.
This was fun though. Fun enough perhaps to interest two bright girls, or their cold mother. Dale turned with a smile, picking a turnip to toss into the empty cabinet before shutting the door.
The stairs rose high, and steep. Behind them hid a long series of rooms, some with shelves with books, others with desks or tables. One had a pair of lounging chairs beside a fireplace, and a rug, and nothing else beneath a mounted buck. Out the back of one particularly empty space with checkered tiles were more stairs.
Dale studied them with a sigh, before ascending. Maybe the hares would have some better luck. That young lady was pretty, with dark tight pants like all the kids but otherwise much like the Mrs. Always bitching. Then she was gone.
The stairs switched, opening into a long corridor. Another turnip bounced into a nook, leaving Dale to mount again before another cramp. A hand went into his front pocket, where between braces against a weary thigh he traced the print of a small button, weaving around and through itself. Eight years, like his granddaughter would be now. A shame it was not ten, or twenty or twice that.
The final step arrived, and after a short slump against the wall he entered a long and wider hallway, hand wandering into satchel. Three crops pressed in his touch, with their little soft velvet stems. Dale doubled back to search the stairs again before committing. One planted here, and no more stairs above must mean a basement with an attic. That or two turnips in the basement, as this single lofty summit was more than trial enough.
Doors lined the wide corridor, any particular no better than next so into the nearest he went. Into darkness, which dispelled from a switch along the wall. A red chaise lounge sat facing a cracked recliner, with elaborately framed portraits spanning the walls behind either.
Dale passed between, to where at the far wall hung many guns. M16s, M40s, type 56s, RPDs, a huge stretching mass. The chambers of 1911s displayed from the stocks of an M60 and a remarkably faithful DP28 complete with vented barrel and drum below the main body above.
He leaned close, and far again, from a China Lake’s stock protruding near the top, sprayed a deep orange, or red, or yellow like all the rest of this collage. It was a bird, or like a bird, a huge one, bigger than Dale and wider too. Rows spread far to either side held it in flight, of subs and knives, then ARs standard issue, and the heaviest trained to the tips of the wide wings.
From down the nose wafted a scent, of decanter and a cigar beside, on a small table planted between the claws. Dale spun, bumping the recliner with a screech as he crossed back to quit the room. That was a masterwork, the craftsmanship, the style even the rust and stains along the barrels.
Dale emerged into the main hallway again, scratching his head. Unless somehow those weren’t replicas. But no, that was an age ago, and how could they get here that was absurd.
He shook his head, looking up. At a young woman down the hallway and the man. His hand snuck slowly back, into his pocket. They didn’t run. They stood too far for shots, but only barely.
Dale searched the corridor. No hounds, but with the hares dispatched he could just sow and leave the house unscathed. No hounds was better, Dale thought, and dared a step as the hares talked. He took another, which the man matched, to confirm his suspicion. A bit further, or perhaps all the way was best to call this bluff, and save his shots. Either way slow was way, to keep the hares in their wolf cloths until too late. There was a story any granddaughter would love.
A crash from behind shattered the dance. Dale turned to a young man sprawled across the hall. A scream followed, and out popped a girl, no older than the black leather boots and tiny neon shirt and piercings to the hilt who never dared return, to test her dad again.
‘Listen all I heard is he did a bunch of shit overseas foreign affairs blasting screams out of helicopters.’ George walked behind the rest, across the dirt of a lot over a hill. ‘Important shit.’
‘Spooky shit.’ Lenny peeled off, toward an old pickup at the far end.
‘The xan man speaketh.’ Eddy raised his foot. ‘Fuck this dust my shoes are fucked man.’
Jules stopped at the lot’s edge, cracking a beer. ‘In Vietnam.’
George arrived beside him, surveying a long slope and classic house beyond. ‘Sure. Maybe.’
‘Put that shit near campus that’s a frat.’ Eddy paused. ‘Your dad’s a Nam nut right?’
‘He always wondered how we fucked it up so bad against some goofy mongoloids.’
‘Oh that’s why he gave you that gay ass name to save you from a draft then.’
‘Bro he was the greatest general of the greatest empire in all of history your little sister fucking pale inbred island fancy ugly pasty trashcan name is gay as hell blow me.’
‘Who?’ George feigned a look. ‘Oh you mean Julius.’
‘Julian Julius same shit.’
‘Are they?’ Eddy turned from the house. ‘Then why not Julius?’
Jules cocked a punch. George watched Eddy flinch, from too far to care. ‘Who’s gay bitch?’
‘What the fuck man.’ Foam frothed from his beer. ‘My shoes.’
George laughed. ‘Uh well looks like both of you.’
Jules turned to a nearby path.
‘Wait what are we doing?’
Jules stopped, and searched his phone before continuing without a word.
George shook his head. ‘That bitch ruined him.’
‘Did you really not bring your phone?’ Eddy looked from his, and tossed it.
‘Yes.’ George caught it below a shaking head. 'Last time I checked that was the point.’
George looked up, tossing it back. ‘So who’s the farmer?’
Eddy nodded with his beer. ‘Nice shirt.’
Lenny arrived beside them in a blank tee, handing a similarly dull grey to each.
George grabbed and emerged again from one, to a still polo’d Eddy. ‘Hound number three?’ He swung the remaining two from Lenny’s arm to his shoulder, as Eddy descended to a now distant Jules.
‘I’m not wearing that.’
‘Yeah I mean color aside this polyester is a nightmare.’ George laughed on after Eddy, with Lenny in tow. ‘Cool truck?’
‘No.’ A long pause from behind. ‘So old.’
The house was huge. Classic porch, doors, even the chair was a nice touch. Rows of windows one over the other sat watching a large field at the hill’s end, tucked snuggly beneath a wide pitched roof stretching far past pillars standing the porch and deck above. The second chimney poked from behind a set of dormers, rising into comfortable view with the trail’s descent.
‘You know now,’ Jules stood hands gripping jacket and foot planted atop a nearby rock, ‘the trouble with mulattos is the fire just goes out.’
‘Great accent.’
‘Oh wow.’ George stopped along the trail beside the rock. ‘Look at all these big words once the phone goes away.’
‘He is right she is a bitch.’ Eddy gestured, with a new beer freshly procured.
‘Don’t be fucking chucking cans man come on.’
‘Heaven forbid some crusty cracker does some work.’
Jules’ finger swept to George. ‘Your cracker right?’
George scanned the roof again. ‘Those chimneys are familiar. I came here once though I don’t know.’
‘Wasn’t he like a hermit? Why is this shit here?’
Eddy watered the grass with a shrug. ‘I’d take a hermit over a cuck any day.’
Jules raised his hand. ’Ok guys I get it you’re pissed I get choice snatch but I don’t make the rules I mean a hermit can’t be that bad eh George?’
‘Bro what the fuck are you talking about I had my nob shlobbed off in Miami last summer get the fuck out of here.’
‘Holy shit I forgot.’ Eddy squeezed the words through gasping laughter. ‘Bay of Pigs.’
Jules laughed. Eddy laughed. From behind came Lenny’s laugh as George threw up his hands. ‘Hilarious.’
‘Damn.’ Lenny spoke. ‘A girl.’
George looked back, then down Lenny’s pointing finger to the front porch, where long blond hair waved in a sprint.
‘Not bad.’
‘I can’t see shit.’ The girl reached the stairs with a wild scream. ‘She could be twelve.’
‘Look a crackhead.’
The porch exploded. Both runners disappeared in a furious ball of blackened flame. A sharp pop cracked up the hill. And another, as a huge smoky belch spewed from somewhere at the roof’s middle. Splintered wood rained crashing down across the roof, and out into the field beyond. The house groaned, buckling toward its middle.
Fire licked the grass, and kissed the sky. A breeze lifted charred wafts of the devouring flames, like a bonfire but sourly stenched. Crackling hissed loudly even from up the hill. The heat roared, nearly drowning other noise.
George’s head snapped. Only grass waved along down the hill, but on he searched, and found a pair, standing just to the side on the edge of some trees. The man stood planted behind a camera, a big one, catching a woman pointing to the house in a gesture and a mic.
‘…the explosion. This remote vacation home has been under investigation by a joint operations taskforce for some time, in cooperation with local law enforcement following a number of unusual calls including excessive firearms discharges in the area. Given the traffic here and Adolph’s previous associations a collective cooperative unit with a number of intelligence agencies was scrambled to investigate what was quickly identified as what authorities have labeled a Far-Right Activation Cell.’
The woman turned toward the house. She stopped at four young men along the hill. The man looked too, and wound his hand to the woman, holding his gaze after she turned again toward the camera.
‘These Cells, or FRACs have risen in frequency and severity over the last decade, but here especially authorities identified a number of highly coordinated elements, including various methods of FRACing. Bret McMartin, a regular visitor here and alumni at Auburn maintained extensive relationships with former students, including the previous heads of multiple greek chapters. In addition Travis ‘redknuckle’ Dalby, a local dealer with family ties to organized crime and Dale Walker provided drugs and guns as part of a comprehensive routine authorities deemed ‘a remarkably efficient terrorist pipeline.’ Both men have extensive criminal records, including numerous arrests and a domestic abuse scandal involving Walker’s own daughter more than thirty years ago, whose work at an arms manufacturer fell briefly under investigation.’
The woman shot a hand to her ear.
‘I’m receiving reports of bodies in the house, including a group of girls as young as fifteen, as well as four as yet unidentified young men.’
‘Holy shit.’ George turned from her, dizzy, wiping a pale hand across the cold sweat running his forehead. ‘Holy shit.’
‘Wait did she say Auburn? Let’s go war eagles.’
‘Holy shit.’ George spun around. He ran a step back up the hill, where a line of cargo pants and shades stood there to meet his wild stare. ‘Holy shit.’
‘Look at that.’
George turned slowly back to the house on shaking legs. A haze wrapped the flames, and wood they devoured. ‘It’s glowing.’