As the flames of the campfire dwindled to the point that there were only occasional eruptions from the mound of red cinders, Owen’s voice had begun trailing off. It would grow softer and softer until there was only the sounds of the wilderness at night to keep Tanny company. Within a few seconds, his body would jerk as if an electric current had just coursed through it and there would be a few mumbled sentences before the entire scene replayed itself. Eventually, however, exhaustion overtook the blond man and snores rumbled from his open mouth.
Tanny wasn’t sure how long he’d watched Owen sleep; long enough to make sure that it wasn’t just some clever ruse, some trap the wacko had come up with to test his companion’s true intentions. Though the back of his head still ached like a son of a bitch, Tanny stumbled to his feet and clutched the rock in his fist so tightly that its crags seemed to be attempting to embed themselves in his hand. He took a few steps across the clearing and stopped, watching for the slightest signs of movement from the sleeping man.
Owen, however, hadn’t changed positions since the last time he’d bolted awake. He was still sprawled across the ground, one hand reaching toward the picture of Tiffany Shepis like that painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Tanny stood as still as the trees in the forest and his heart thumped in his chest so hard he was certain the sound of its beats would stir Owen from his slumber. He tried to breathe softly and scanned the ground ahead for any dry twigs that might betray his presence with a sharp snap.
Taking three more steps, Owen stopped again. Listened. Watched. Moved again once he was certain that his so-called friend was still safely nestled within whatever dreams flitted through that twisted mind.
After what seemed to be an eternity of creeping across the campsite, Tanny glared down at the sleeping man. The rock in his hand seemed as heavy as a brick and he stared at the tangle of blond hair just above the little knot at the base of the skull. Every muscle in his body seemed tense, as if they had been pulled tightly across his diminutive skeleton and longed for release.
I could do it. Right now. Let that bastard see what it feels like. Let him have a taste of his own fucking medicine.
Owen’s chest continued to rise and fall as a tiny spider crept across the folds of his clothes.
Serve that crazy asshole right….
Tanny felt as if he were towering over his traveling companion, as if he were a giant that could rain death and destruction down upon a village that was no bigger than the ones he’d once set upon his mantle at Christmas. It would be so easy to simply swing his arm, to feel the thud jar his elbow and shoulder as rock crashed into bone. So easy to let the man’s blood flow into the hungry soil out here, hidden by the trees and darkness with all the little insects who’d parade in to strip the flesh from Owen’s battered carcass. He could do it….
In the back of his mind a voice that fluttered with nervous excitement babbled.
What if you don’t kill him? What if he wakes up and yanks the rock out of your hand? Shit, you saw what happened earlier. What the fuck would he do if you were actually attacking him? You want to end up being the one left to rot out here? That’s how it would end…. Do you really want to die because some obsessed crazy man got the best of you? Damn it, Tanny think! Think, think, think!
The spider had made its way to Owen’s collar now and it’s spindly legs stretched out as it pulled its body onto bare flesh. The man mumbled thickly as his brow creased and, reaching up with one hand, he flipped the little arachnid away.
Tanny felt as though he’d just plunged into an icy river. Chills tingled his scalp and a sharp pain jabbed through the center of his chest as his heart forgot to beat. He held the rock above his head as steadily as he held his breath.
Kill me, he’s gonna kill me, the psycho son of a bitch….
Owen rolled onto his side and smacked his lips lightly. He sighed and muttered groggily; for the most part it was nothing more than an incoherent babble. But there was one word that Tanny heard as clearly as the hissing embers of the campfire: Tiffany.
At the same time, the blonde man pulled Tanny’s satchel close to his body. He spooned the light brown pack like a lover and nestled his cheek against the canvass as if it were the soft flesh of his obsession.
Tanny thought of all his supplies and belongings, tucked away under Owen’s head. His food. His clothing. The pocket knife and lengths of cord.
Fuck it. Fat lot of good those things would do him if his brains were splattered across the forest floor. He’d put the rock carefully upon the ground and then simply slip into the darkness of the night. By the time this maniac woke up, Tanny would be far away from the mountain; he’d be safe and, with an interesting story to share with other survivors, would begin the process of gathering supplies again.
Yet, part of his soul still burned with anger. It was as some ancient demon had seeped through the gash on the back of his skull and infected his mind with the poison of vengeance. It demanded retribution, some sort of satisfaction for the indignities the little man had endured. People just shouldn’t be allowed to get away with shit like that. It wasn’t fucking right and that bastard deserved to hurt so damn bad that he’d rue the day he ever heard the name Tanny Henderson.
A grin caused Tanny’s mustache to bristle like an angry curr as a cold glee frosted his eyes.
Yeah, he’d hurt this ass licker in the worst possible way. He’d crumble this degenerate fuck’s world just like the rotters had laid waste to the real one. Leave him crying on the ground like a little baby with a diaper full of shit.
With a smirk, Tanny snatched the picture of Tiffany Shepis from it’s little altar.
Owen had been raised in the woods. He’d grown up in a rundown shack where running water meant the creek that wound its way down from the hills and divided the front yard. At eight years old, he’d been left to wander through the night as he searched the forest for the mythical snipe with paper sack firmly in hand. He’d spent the better part of his childhood hiking, fishing, and camping; his grandfather had taught him how to hunt long before he’d even had his first wet dream. Owen knew that sweet little spot just above a deer’s front leg where a thirty-ought-six would make short work of the heart-lung area. But he also knew how rare it was to drop an animal where it stood; which is why Grandpa Reid had made damn sure the boy knew how to track as well.
That fuckin’ animal wasn’t bleeding, not yet at least, but he’d still been running scared once he’d gotten a good piece away from the campsite. Once the panic had kicked in, that little bastard may have as well been leaving little note cards saying This way tucked in the bent and snapped twigs of bushes. The trail was so clear, in fact, that Owen could almost picture that warbly rat scampering ahead of him like a ghost.
“You’ll be a ghost soon enough, you pint-sized cock. I’ll be dropping evil on your ass so hard you’ll hear your backbone pop right before I chew your fuckin’ heart out.”
The hatchet trembled in Owen’s hand as if excited by the promise of blood; he could even feel it throbbing and pulsing in his white-knuckled grip, as if dark forces surged through the grain of the wood.
“Soon.” he thought as the trees and rocks blurred by, “So very fucking soon.”
Shortly before dawn, the ground had opened up beneath Tanny Henderson’s feet. He’d been scrambling down a hillside, doing more sliding than running actually, when the soil suddenly gave way beneath his weight. His foot plunged into the sinkhole, but momentum and gravity had demanded that he continue fleeing. Caught between the two forces, his arms pinwheeled for balance as his body lurched forward and, within the span of a second, his face had smacked against the unforgiving ground. He’d tried to stand, to brush the dirt off his clothes and just keep right on going; but his ankle felt as if it were encircled with fiery bands of steel and he collapsed beneath his own weight.