The Outkast (9 page)

Buzzing Brad’s intercom now.

Then, something hit him hard in the chest—a stark realization of Brad’s inadequacy and undependability. In recent times, the short man had
cultivated
a less-than-acceptable idiosyncrasy of leaving his hearing aid at home when coming to school, a place where it was most needed. If Brad had become so loose-minded to botch it at work, who was to say he wasn’t in bed right now without the damn gadget attached to his ears, smiling stupidly at the ceiling?

Or even sleeping?

Donnie’s bladder filled up all of a sudden, not with urine but with trepidation.

He listened to the intercom ring, and held his breath while his eyes darted in every direction in search of the impending disaster.

Then, there was miracle.

Brad picked up the intercom just after the first ring. “Who’s there, please?” he said, not sounding like one who’d just been aroused from sleep.

“
Brad,” Donnie shouted into the intercom, speaking as fast as he could, “come open the door for me. I’m being chased by a very dangerous hit man ... a monster, Brad. The door, quickly!”

“
What, Donnie? I can’t hear you. Could you speak up, please? And try to slow down a bit.”

Yeah, the shit has begun to hit the fan once again. If anything can go wrong, this is the most suitable night for such to happen.

“
I’m gonna die soon,” Donnie yelled. “Damn it, Brad. Come get this fucking door ... now ... someone’s trying to kill me ... a big dangerous ape-man.”

“
What?”

“
Open the
FUCKING
door.”

“
Ok, Donnie. I’ve heard you now, and I’m coming. But you don’t need to scream every single time to make me understand what you’ve got to say, you know?”

A rustling of leaves behind. Donnie cast a swift glance backwards and saw the thing approach him from the left flank of the building. Donnie literally flew off the porch, and raced down the gloomy wooded path.

He lost his bearings a number of times.

He stumbled twice, ran into a tree trunk once. Nose bleeding, head pounding, he tripped over a log lying across the floor, covered beneath a camouflage of leaves, and he finally nose-dove towards the foot of an oak tree. He raised his head to continue his race. To his left, just about six feet away, was Robert Smallwood. The boy sat on the leave-strewn ground, leaning his back against the trunk of another oak tree, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, his hands in his lap. He appeared to be slumbering.

Survival was of utmost importance to Donnie. However, the sudden amazement of finding Robert here at this time of night all by himself put him off his stroke for a short moment. “Rob, is that you?” Donnie cried even as he endeavored to rise and proceed.

He got an answer in the shape of a blow to his throbbing temple. As he took a descent back to the ground, he dreamily thought,
And all I wanted to do was ask if it was Rob, and if he was doing okay
.

Damn right. He’s doing okay, Donnie the overnight caring guy.

Donnie gazed up at the ape-man, who gazed back down at him.

“
Please, don’t kill me,” he pleaded. With blood seeping out of his nose and lips, his words issued forth in a wet, throaty voice.

The huge monster kicked him hard, the impact flipping him face-down.

Donnie groaned.

The creature bent down, grabbed Donnie’s collar, and picked him up—as effortlessly as one would pick up a withered bloom. “You shall be cast out into the bottomless pit of hell, where you shall burn without end,” it said to Donnie. Its voice was raspy, the kind of quality you would very much associate with an alien inflicted with a ruptured throat. “Pit, filled with blazing fire and killing brimstone. Can you stand on your feet?”

Donnie opened his mouth to answer, but realized only a spasm of whimper escaped his lips. This close, his appraisal of the terror that had fallen upon him was escalated.

“
Come on,” the terrible voice said. “You should be able to stand on your own two feet, big boy. Or I might as well cut them off. Can you?”

“
Oh, no, please,” Donnie blurted out, finding his voice by the power of will he thought he’d lost. “Yes, I know I can. I have to stand ... Oh, sweet Jesus, I just have to be able to stand on my own two ... oh, please, don’t cut—”

His captor let go of its grip all of a sudden. Because the release was so abrupt, Donnie’s injured knees buckled under him. He crashed back on the ground, face-down.

“
Useless,” the ape-man shrieked, and swung its leg upward, catching Donnie’s left flank, towards his rib cage. There was a slight crunching sound. “Can’t even stand on your own feet.” Another swing, another crunch.

Donnie screeched in pain. “My ribs ... oh, please, stop this.”

“
I shall help you rise to your destiny,” the thing said, not paying any attention to Donnie’s petition. Then, it stabbed Donnie’s backside with its scythe, very deep. Certain the weapon had hooked securely within Donnie’s flesh, it yanked it up, hauling Donnie along with it.

Donnie’s scream had turned delirious, almost like a wild laugh. And it grew even wilder as he felt himself levitating in the air, flesh tearing, blood spurting.

But the bulk of Donnie’s weight was too much, and the scythe caved in, biting off more flesh as Donnie cut loose from it and dropped back to the ground.

Weeping and screaming and writhing in pain, Donnie looked to his side. He called out to Robert, telling him to run away now and call the cops. He didn’t know if this was the way people die. Or maybe it was just a horrible kind of dream from which he would wake up soon—provided there ever could be a feeling of such severe pain in a dream of any sort. But whether he knew or not, he wanted Robert to get out quickly, and call for help.

“
Run now,” he yelled with the last reserve of his strength. But Robert was unmoving, just resting against the back of the tree like he’d done since Donnie had arrived at the scene. Perhaps the boy was dead. Donnie burst into tears, sliding on his chest towards Robert, blood trailing him. “Oh, no ... Robert, this can’t be true ...”

The creature put one foot down in front of Donnie, making the slithering man stop in his track. “You’re a real fighter. Very brave. I like you. And you shall be rewarded. Yeah, I shall help you rise to your destiny,” the ape-man said. It grabbed Donnie’s collar again, and pulled him up. With its scythe, it hacked repeatedly into Donnie’s solar plexus until the man, who had suddenly developed a caring attitude towards Robert, became motionless.

******

The Outcast dropped the flabby body on the ground, and walked towards Robert. Again, it was time to wake the boy up from his near-stupor. And to hand him the weapon of justice—this time, a bloody scythe.

******

Brad wanted to let Donnie realized that he was sick and tired of being screamed at. He unlocked the front door, but didn’t open it. “Come on in whenever you’re good and ready,” he yelled out to Donnie, and walked back into the living room.

Then, he stopped, having noticed Donnie didn’t open the door.

He walked back to the door, pushed it open, looked out this way and that, and found no living soul.

“
What the hell are you up to?” Brad said under his breath. He decided to go back to bed. But then, a glimpse of something caught his eye. It glinted in the glow of the lights, right there on the porch step. He drew closer and found out it was blood.

He slammed the door shut right away, locked.

He didn’t have a clear-cut understanding of what was going on, but there was blood on his porch step and a late night visit by the strange Donnie Murphy. So, he had a reason to believe something was wrong with the world.

Back in the living room, he picked up the phone and called Donnie.

Then, he called the cops.

Chapter 12

At last, the moon began to smile down on the slumbering souls of Ogre’s Pond.

The Outcast turned the ignition on, and under the blessing of the lunar light, he drove off.

It had taken him a good while to finalize business with Donnie and get back to the spot where he’d parked his SUV. But he hadn’t regretted a second of the experience. In fact, he felt so elated, because he had spent some quality time with Donnie. Some kills took longer than the others. The longer and more complex they were, the more fulfilled he became. The job was all done now. It was time to celebrate the conquest.

But first things first. He would make one last visit to the River, a ritual he performed each time the eradication process of one more foe had been completed—with the exception of Trevor, of course. That was another reason he detested to relive his experience with the feeble man.

He drove back to the dirt road that ran parallel to the trail, which in turn ran along the bank of Sebastian River. He wanted to have one last look at Donnie’s body, to breathe in the air of fresh conquest and taste the sweetness of it.

If he hadn’t been very vigilant, or if he had completely given himself over to the deep euphoric feeling of his victory, he might not have noticed on time. Ahead, the Sheriff’s cruiser was parked in-between two fat oak trees, a set of
disco
lights gyrating atop its roof.

The Outcast swerved into an area of overgrown underbrush, farther away from the side of the road, and cut out the engine. He got out from behind the wheel, moved to a concealing spot, and crouching there, he watched.

There was a second police car parked several feet away from the Sheriff’s. It was completely blocked from view by a densely formed grove of oaks, and only the showers of light dancing around the trees gave it away.

He heard the loud voice of Sheriff Stack before he saw him emerge from the woods, moving into the open space. The Outcast could see that the man was clearly—and absolutely—ruffled.

Good.

He would give him a load of reasons to feel even more upset. That’s the beauty of the game—the beauty, the whole glorious point. Get him ruffled and puzzled. Let confusion and consternation set in.

He watched and listened.

Out here in the woods, even with a whisper, voices carried very easily and far in the quiet of the night. But Sheriff Brian Stack wasn’t whispering. He was actually screaming into the face of the night, obliterating every foundation of serenity. He held something in his hand, waving it in the air as he raved. The Outcast squinted to make out what it was. A book. Apparently, Robert’s book.

The boy must have brought his book to the killing ground again. The Outcast forbade him doing that, and he would have taken care of it had he known. He alone was to leave tracks behind at every scene. His True Blood was too green to demonstrate adequate finesse when it came to handling such responsibility.

Next time they met, he would address it. No big deal.

But then, The Outcast heard the Sheriff giving orders to his deputies. They were going to get Robert and put him in custody.

Not in a million years.

The Outcast had to move right away.

Had to spring into action and stymie them.

******

It was 12:01 A.M. on Thursday.

Robert curled up under his blanket, snoring peacefully, no ongoing nightmares. The bloody scythe felt cold against his flank.

There was a vicious rap at the door—the main entrance door, from the sound of it. And then another rap. There were frantic voices outside the house, too. Voices attempting to force their ways in through the smallest cracks available, and then straight ahead to intrude upon his calm world of no dreams.

He wriggled gently, rustling the blanket.

Then, a firm and callous hand slid up his arm.

******

Aroused from sleep and confused, Holly hopped out of bed and staggered across the room, heading towards the parlor in response to the cacophonous sounds of raps and voices.

“
You didn’t lock the main door to your home, Mrs. Smallwood,” Deputy Allan Moore, who appeared to have forgotten Holly’s little instruction regarding what she should be called, said as Holly appeared.

Holly looked at him, not yet fully
awake
to her environment, to what was going on.

“
You didn’t even close it, let alone lock it,” said Deputy Crawford McGinnis, a very young and wiry man who had accompanied Allan to Holly’s house. “It was left ajar.”

Holly turned in Crawford’s direction. A veritable rookie. She put his age at twenty, maybe twenty-one. Assuming a stern disposition, she said, “What nonsense are you talking about? How could I have gone to sleep with my door left open, young man?”

“
Um ...” Crawford began, and shrugged, playing the role of a henpecked man who had just been browbeaten by his iron-fisted woman. His hand drifted to his gun holster with absently, and then stayed put while he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.