Legion of Despair: Book Three in The Borrowed World Series (8 page)

In less than five minutes, his question as to the trail’s destination had been answered. The trail brought him out in the woods behind the public housing development. He remained in the woods and scanned the grounds but saw no one out moving around. He saw no men that might have been their visitors, nor anyone who might have witnessed them returning. He withdrew back into the woods and walked back.

When he and Dave rejoined the others in front of Sara’s house, they found that their neighbor Scott was also there, his revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants. Gary nodded at him.

“Find anything?” Scott asked.

“A well-worn trail between here and those apartments,” Gary said. “There’s also some trails beat down in other directions. It’s practically a highway back there.”

“I wonder who’s been using it?” Scott asked.

“Besides today’s visitors, I’m not sure,” Gary said. “I’ve never noticed people back there before. It does concern me, though.”

“It makes my decision a little easier,” Scott said.

“What decision?” Gary asked.

Scott looked around at the group. “We’re leaving,” he announced.

Gary thought this over. “I hate to hear that,” he said. “I was kind of hoping that we might be able to work together to put a little better security in place around here.”

Scott shrugged. “I’m sorry, Gary, but I just don’t know if there’s much we can do about that. This place is too close to town. There’s probably ten thousand people who could get here in less than a fifteen minute walk. How do you protect against that?”

Scott was telling Gary what he already knew. “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Gary admitted. “So where are you going?”

“Our church has a camp in the woods,” Scott said. “We do revivals and retreats there. There are cabins and bunkhouses, showers, a dining hall – everything we need. It’s even got spring water and outhouses. It’s on about two hundred and fifty acres over in Bland County. Some of us are going to go over and open the camp up. More folks will probably come out after we get it going. We’re going to pool our fuel together and try to make a few trips in the church bus so that we can haul more people. Some of us are thinking that pooling our resources will be the best way for us to survive this. Otherwise the elderly and the shut-ins won’t make it much longer.”

Gary knew he was right about that.

“When are you going?” Will asked.

“Today,” Scott replied. “No use delaying it. Everyone is packing up right now. I went through every gas-operated machine and vehicle I own and scraped together enough fuel to fill my truck up. We’re going to load all our stuff into that old horse trailer and fit all the people in the bed of the truck. It’ll be a load but hopefully we can get there with no problems.”

“And no trouble,” Gary warned. “I hope you’ve got more than that revolver to protect yourself.”

“We do,” Scott said. “My sons are armed. They’ll be watching while I do the driving. The men of the church know to bring their weapons as well. Our camp will not be relying on prayer alone for protection. There’s also a time and place in God’s world for Smith and Wesson.”

Gary extended his hand. “Good luck, Scott. We’ll try to keep an eye on your place but I’m not sure we’re even going to be able to keep an eye on our own places.”

Scott smiled at him. “Don’t worry about it, Gary. Without the people I care about inside it, it’s just another house. Remember that.”

Gary nodded. He would have to make sure his family remembered that. Scott shook Will’s and Dave’s hands, then hugged Sara. He made Gary promise to give his goodbyes to the rest of the family, hitched his pants up, spat, and walked off.

Things were quiet for a moment, then Gary turned to his family. “So these guys had masks on, Sara?”

She nodded. “They were those kind of masks like soldiers wear. Like tubes that you pull over your head, but they were black with a skull print on the front.”

“Have you all seen those folks before?”

“No,” Sara said.

“No,” Dave replied. “Not me.”

Will was hesitant.

“Will?” Gary prodded.

“Yes,” Will admitted. “It’s the guys with the dirt bikes. They were in creepy black clothes with those masks when they rode up here before. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to scare anyone. It’s why I’ve been so jumpy, though. People don’t hide their faces unless they’re up to no good.”

“Right,” Gary said. “I guess we need to get back to work. I don’t want anyone working outside of the house again without radios. We probably have a dozen cheap walkie-talkies with plenty of batteries and we’re not using them. I thought about it last night and meant to get them out first thing, then we got busy. That’s just the kind of dumb decision we can’t afford to make anymore. If Sara had one, she could have called us. We got lucky this time. We can’t count on luck to save us every time. Let’s get those radios before we do anything else.”

Chapter 5

Boyd’s House

Bluefield, VA

Alice sensed it was mid-morning but only the faintest light filtered into the basement. Outside, the hills were steep and the houses crammed closely together, blocking out all but the overhead light of midday. The tiny basement windows were so grimy she doubted they had ever been cleaned. The insides were smeared with a greasy film that diffused the light. The outsides of the ground level windows were crusted with grass clippings and splashed mud.

The house above her had been silent all morning. She had nothing to occupy her physically so all she could do was obsess on her plight. She thought of her son and husband, how they must miss her, how they must wonder what had happened to her. She didn’t know if she’d ever see them again. It was impossible to know. Nothing could be certain in this violent and unpredictable world. She also thought of Boyd. Why had he taken her? What did he want from her? Would she end up like Rebecca, brutally stabbed and bled out until her skin was white as paper?

At some point in the morning, the floor creaked above her and she heard the solid clunk of a sliding deadbolt being thrown. The door at the top of the basement stairs opened and a pair of feet made their way into her limited line of sight. As she expected, it was Boyd, and he was carrying a bucket of water and a wadded up towel.

He set them on the floor near her, then reached behind his back and withdrew a knife, looking at her expressionlessly. She moved her eyes from his and looked at the knife. Her dad had owned many knives and had told her that you could tell a lot about a man by the knife he carried. Was it a tool? Was it a weapon? Was it a cheap, flashy knife that would not hold up to use? Was it a serious, no-nonsense tool?

This one looked like an older hunting knife, the handle made of antler. She knew from her father that many of those older hunting knives were made of a softer grade steel than modern knives. Though they would not hold an edge as long, they could be honed to cut like a razor. It was impossible to look at such a knife in the hands of someone so obviously crazy and not feel your guts curdle with fear. It was a knife designed for skinning and flesh removal.

Was that what he had in mind for her?

“Stick out your hands,” Boyd croaked, his voice raspy from disuse.

Alice hesitated, then did as he said. Boyd slipped the blade between her hands, tugged upward, and easily cut the ties that held her hands. They fell apart. She rubbed her wrists, trying to massage life back into them. There were marks where the zip ties had cut into them which would take a long time to go away.

“You fucking stink,” he said. “As my grandfather would have said, you’d knock a buzzard off a shit-wagon. Clean yourself up.”

Alice looked down at herself. She was filthy. Her clothes were disgusting, stiff and caked with body oils, sweat, and urine.

“Do you have something else I could wear?” she asked.

Boyd stomped up the stairs, and returned in a moment with his arms wadded full of clothes. He’d not had time to search for anything. He had obviously just picked up a pile that was already up there for some reason. He dumped them on her, then turned and went back up the steps without a word. At the top, he slammed the door ridiculously hard, as if trying to make a point that was lost on her, then latched the deadbolt back.

She could hear him talking as he walked off, although she assumed that he was alone. She’d not heard anyone else in the house. It was likely that he was talking to himself. That was not particularly concerning, a lot of folks talked to themselves, but it sounded like he was arguing with himself.

Alice rolled the stack of clothes off of her and reached carefully for the bucket of water. In the dim light, she could see tiny things floating in it, as if the bucket had not been washed before being filled. It was clear, though. She leaned over it and smelled. There was no odor to it. Thirst overtook her and she tilted the bucket to her lips, gulping at the water. It ran down her face. There was a slight pain in her shrunken stomach as it received the water. When she could drink no more, she turned back to clothes Boyd had left her.

They smelled clean, but vaguely stale, as if they’d been stored for a long time. It was like the smell of an old steamer trunk. In the dim light, she sorted the stack. They reminded her of the clothes she’d seen in pictures from the 1960s – knits, polyester, silky floral blouses. They were the clothes of women with beehive hairdos and long cigarettes. Toward the bottom of the pile she found a shapeless cotton dress that had probably never been in style, even when it was new. Of all the clothes, it was the only thing that would fit her comfortably.

Although maneuvering was awkward with the heavy chain still zip-tied to her neck, she undressed as efficiently as possible. Fortunately, she was wearing a button-up shirt, otherwise she’d have had to tear it loose since she couldn’t pull anything over her head. When she was naked in the killer’s dark basement, she felt as vulnerable as she’d ever felt. Despite that feeling of vulnerability, she found no room for terror in her heart. At this point, she had little control. Her only choice was to go with what happened until she could find a crack and hope that she could exploit it.

When Alice had cleaned herself as best she could, she set the bucket and towel to the side and dressed herself. She was glad that she didn’t have a mirror. With her unwashed and uncombed hair, wearing this old and ill-fitting dress, she was certain her own appearance would have brought her to tears.

She sat down at the base of the support pole, her chain held in her hands to keep the weight from pulling at her neck, and waited for Boyd. Unaware of how long she waited, the shadows slowly changed direction and eventually evening came.

She must have nodded off because a sound startled her awake. She sat up and listened. She heard the sound of the steel bolt unlocking, the door creaked loudly, and then the stairs groaned.

“Are we all ready?” Boyd called down. He almost sounded like a game show host, throwing a playful lilt into his voice

Alice wrinkled her brow.
Ready? For what?
“Yes,” she said brightly, not wanting to anger him.

He seemed pleased with this answer, skipping down the stairs and smiling broadly at her.

“We’re having dinner,” he said. “I fixed it myself.”

Alice was normally picky about whose food she would eat, but these were not normal times. She was at the point that she’d fight a crow over a rabbit carcass. Whatever he laid in front of her, short of human flesh, she’d eat.

“Great,” she said. “I’m starving.”

Boyd pulled the knife from the back of his belt and pointed the blade at her. “I am going to cut you loose. I have a gun in my pocket. If you try to escape, if you fight, or even if you just piss me the fuck off, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

Alice nodded, not trusting her voice, certain it would betray her terror.

Boyd edged the hunting blade closer to her. Alice watched it, afraid that even the slightest twitch would result in the blade slicing into her flesh. Boyd met her eyes and stared into them, enjoying the effect that the blade had on her. Fear fed the monster inside him.

He found the gap between her neck and the black zip tie and slid the knife into it. Turning the knife slowly until the blade was against the plastic, Boyd sliced and the tie fell away. Alice felt the tension drain from her body. She could have fallen over if she wasn’t so afraid of provoking his wrath.

His knife hand swept into a gesture directing her toward the stairs. Alice rose unsteadily to her feet, slightly dizzy from the lack of food. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Taking the handrail, she climbed toward the upstairs, finding it brighter than the last time she’d passed through here.

“To the right at the top of the stairs,” Boyd said from behind her.

She followed his directions and found herself in a cluttered kitchen that clearly was the domain of an elderly lady. It was decorated in a manner that only an old lady could do, with little tea towels, framed embroidery, and decorative plates on the wall. Everything was old enough to be considered vintage, even though it was clearly still being used, from the chunky aluminum canister set, to the crackled ceramic cookie jar, to the 1950s electric range.

“Excuse the décor,” Boyd said. “My mother’s touch.”

Alice nodded as she looked around. “Mother? We haven’t met,” Alice said. “Is she still around?” Translation:
Don’t be telling me that someone has been in this house with you the whole time that your psycho ass has had me tied up in the basement because that would really piss me off.

“No,” Boyd said. “She passed…suddenly.”

“Hmmm,” Alice said. She didn’t even want to know how that happened. She would not have been surprised to find that Boyd had his mother in a back room making a suit from her dried flesh. He definitely had that vibe going on.

“So, sit down,” Boyd said, gesturing toward a Formica table. It was also vintage 1950s, and Alice decided that Boyd’s mother had probably purchased it new.

She seated herself. In front of her were a variety of open cans, the lids jagged and still attached, folded back and exposing the room temperature contents of the cans. There were black beans, corn, tuna, and beets. There was also a jar of store brand peanut butter, the jar open and a spoon stuck in it.

“It’s not much but it’s what I’ve got,” he said. “Go ahead.”

She didn’t have to be told twice, understanding that the tides could turn at any moment. Boyd could suddenly and irrationally become angry with her and send her back to the basement. She needed to cram in as many calories as she could. She took a can and held it over her plate. She picked up a fork and started to scoop some tuna out.

Boyd cleared his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She looked up at him, still standing beside her. She wasn’t sure what he meant. “The prayer?”

“No, silly,” he said. “The
man
. You haven’t fed your man first.”

She bit her tongue, not wanting to make some sarcastic comment that would result in the food being taken from her. “How silly of me,” she laughed. “I’m not thinking clearly. I get that way when I’m hungry.”

My man
? Acid rose into her throat. The thought was almost more than her stomach could handle.

“Damn right you’re not thinking clearly,” he said, joining her in her laugh. “Cause this is a fucking test and you were pretty damn close to failing it. I won’t be giving you any more of the answers. That was a freebie right there.”

Boyd took his seat and handed her his plate. She dutifully filled it from each can. “That’s more like it.”

She smiled at him. “I sure don’t want to fail any test, Boyd. But what happens if I do fail?” She had been unable to keep that thought from coming out of her mouth. She had not wanted to ask, but now it was out there. She looked at him, waiting for an answer.

Boyd scraped together a forkful of corn and tuna. “Let’s not dwell on the negative,” he finally said. “Let’s just assume that you’re going to pass. The alternative is unpleasant and makes me sad.”

She scraped beans from the can and began eating some of them. They were cold and had not been rinsed of the liquid that they came in. She’d never eaten them that way, but her body needed whatever protein she could get. She ate them eagerly.

“Focusing on the positive instead, what happens if I pass?” Alice asked.

A strange expression settled on Boyd’s face. He looked down at his lap. He could not meet her eye. He pointed to a coffee cup on the table, overturned on a saucer.

She looked at it. “What is it?”

Boyd still didn’t meet her eye. “Look under it.” He had a smile on his down-turned face. It was a bashful expression, though Alice could not be sure if it was genuine or not. She didn’t know what to think or what to do.

“Go ahead,” he urged.

She lifted up the coffee cup. Underneath was a wedding ring. The gold band was dull yellow and worn thin. Someone had worn it for many years. The stone was small, barely a chip. “Can I?” she asked, gesturing at the ring.

He nodded.

She picked the ring up and examined it. There was dirt on it and something else. She scraped it with her fingernail.

“It was my mother’s,” he said.

She realized that it was blood she was scraping off. Dried, brown blood.

“Oh, it may need to be cleaned,” he said, observing the look on her face as she rubbed her fingers together. “I had a little trouble getting it off.”

The hunger had slowed her thinking to the point that she had not been able to put the pieces together. Those pieces slammed together suddenly, though, and she realized what this meant. This was his mother’s ring and somehow he had taken this ring off and it had involved both blood and dirt. Had he cut it off her dead finger? Was she buried outside? Alice didn’t want to know.

Then the last piece hit her as Boyd looked up from his lap and his eyes met hers. It was broadcast from his expression, a mixture of shyness, adoration, and confusion. He wanted her to be his wife. That was the test. Was she
wife
material
? Her immediate thought was to throw the ring at him, to get the vile thing out of her hands as quickly as she could, but she could not know what reaction that might provoke. Her life depended on handling this matter delicately.