Mysfits, Page 2

  Madeline threw the van into reverse and frantically backed away. He jogged after. She floored it, careening backwards, and quickly stretched the distance between them until she reached the house and realized she had nowhere to go. The land was heavily wooded, the driveway just a gravel track between the trees.

  The man loped around a bend in the drive. Madeline clamped her jaws shut, shifted gears, and gunned the engine. He'll move.

  As the distance between them shrank, he raised his gun. She sank down in her seat. Emily! She was sitting up! Madeline shoved her against the door and stamped on the gas. The van roared forward. Something thumped against her door, but she kept going, barely able to see over the dashboard.

  A gun blast exploded to her left, and the van lurched hard to one side. Madeline fought for control, only vaguely aware she had jammed both the gas pedal and the brake to the floorboard. While the engine screamed in protest, the vehicle continued its crippled lurch forward until it slammed into a tree. Madeline finally bent her knees, and the engine noise instantly died away.

  She unhooked their seatbelts, grabbed Emily, and dragged her out the driver's door. As she turned, the man appeared in front of her. His left arm hung awkwardly at his side. He held a sawed-off shotgun, rib-high, in his right. Though his stance was unsteady, the weapon proved threatening enough to immobilize her.

  The man's eyes narrowed to slits as he grimaced. "Even with one arm," he said through clenched teeth, "I can nail you both before you get ten feet. Wanna try?"

  Madeline shook her head and stared into the cavernous gun barrels, the green paint and rust depressingly familiar. She shook off unwanted thoughts of how he'd gotten it.

  "Since you fucked up my arm, you're gonna have to take care of me." He waved the gun at the house. When they reached the building, he herded Madeline and Emily ahead of him as he searched every room. Satisfied they were alone, he had Madeline cut the wires to the phones, then settled onto her bed, groaning as he bent his bad arm.

  He leaned back against the headboard and nodded at the foot of the mattress. "Put the kid there. You got a first aid kit?"

  "You're going to need more than that," Madeline said.

  He swung the shotgun toward a framed photo of Emily on the nightstand and pulled a trigger. The gun roared, the picture disintegrated, and a jagged hole appeared in the wall. With a motion smooth enough to belie his injured arm, he opened the shotgun at the breach. Before Madeline could think, move, or react, he replaced the shells in both barrels and casually pointed the weapon at Emily. "Waste any more of my time, and I'll do the same to her."

  Emily had become rigid, her muscles cement tight.

  "What's with her?"

  Madeline hugged the child until she began to relax. "She... she has some mental problems."

  "No shit." He stared at her. "It don't hurt her looks. I've never had a retard."

  Madeline's belly tightened. "Listen, you...."

  He pointed the gun at her. "I can do her with you dead just as easy as I can with you alive." He cocked a hammer. "Now, where's that first aid kit?"

  Madeline left the room but heard him yell. "And get me something to eat."

  She gathered medical supplies while alternately making and delivering food. She had to make a half dozen trips since he only allowed her two minutes out of his sight before threatening to shoot Emily. Each time, Madeline hurried back to reassure him that she was only doing what he asked.

  When she'd brought him everything he demanded, she sat on the floor desperately trying to calm herself while he rummaged through a box of bandages, cold remedies, and old prescriptions. He squinted at a label on one of the amber-colored bottles, then smiled in recognition. He made Madeline remove the child-proof cap, shook out two pain-killers, and tossed them in his mouth.

  "That arm looks bad," she said staring at the swollen limb. "You need a doctor. It might be broken."

  He frowned. "Thanks, bitch."

  "My name's Madeline."

  "Yeah? Mine's Doak, but you can call me God." Using his good hand, he shoved the balance of a sandwich past his lips and chewed with his mouth open. He chased it with Pepsi and a belch. "Reckon I'll have to shoot your sorry ass just so I can take a nap."

  Madeline went cold, her mind reeling at the threat.

  He laughed. "It's a joke. I ain't ready to kill you yet." He looked around the room. "But I need to put you someplace where I don't have to worry about you."

  Please, God, help me get away from him! "We won't do anything, I promise."

  He answered with a snort of derision. "I'd tie you up if I could. You got a garage or something I can lock you in?"

  Madeline nodded. "There's an empty potting shed out there." She pointed through the sliding glass door to a patio.

  "Show me." He shifted off the bed.

  When she reached for Emily, Doak jabbed Madeline's shoulder with the shotgun. "Leave her."

  "But--"

  "Talk to the gun. I don't feel like arguing."

  Madeline rubbed the spot where he'd poked her as she walked through the sliding glass door and on to the potting shed at the far side of the patio. Doak followed her in, surveyed the dark space, and then examined a tiny window set in the door. A wolfish grin lit his rough face. "Lucky you."

  She frowned, and he pointed at the patio door. "I'll leave the curtains open so you can watch."

  Madeline fought back her panic. "Emily? You can't! She's just--"

  He laughed. "You don't know how long it's been." He slammed the door and locked her in. Madeline pressed her forehead against the window and watched him return to the house. Rather than open the curtains, he yanked them down and tossed them aside. Emily remained on the bed where they'd left her.

  Doak pushed the glass door to one side and stuck his head out. "Yo, Mama! I'll leave this open so you can hear, too."

  Enraged, Madeline smashed her fists on the rough door. When it wouldn't budge she looked again through the window. Doak pulled Emily to her feet, then moved his hand to her shoulder. He drew her close, though her movements were stiff. After unbuttoning her blouse he pushed her back down on the bed. Madeline grew frantic as Doak unfastened Emily's jeans and pulled them off. When he reached for the elastic band on the girl's underwear, Madeline screamed.

  Doak looked through the door, amused, but when Madeline kept screaming he retrieved the shotgun and fired it at the shed. "Shut up out there!"

  Madeline fell to the dirt floor but scrambled back to the window after a few moments of silence. Doak shrugged out of his jumpsuit, and she choked back bile at the mere memory of his smell.

  Emily lay on the bed unclothed and unmoving. Though tense as timber, she made no effort to protect herself. With a growing sense of panic and fury, Madeline watched Doak force the girl's legs apart and step between them, his naked buttocks obscenely pale. Madeline screamed at him.

  Doak backed away and reached for the shotgun. Stepping to the side to allow Madeline a clear view, he put the barrel of the gun to Emily's ear. "She don't move much. She might as well be dead," he yelled. "If you keep that shit up, she will be."

  Madeline ground her teeth as she watched him grope the body on the bed. Emily didn't react. She remained motionless as he jabbed his fingers at her genitals, then entered her.

  Tears burned Madeline's cheeks as she watched his repeated thrusts. At last he arched his back and withdrew. He looked out toward the shed and waved, his voice loud and coarse. "I've had better. How 'bout I do you in the morning for comparison?"

  He lay on the bed with his bad arm across Emily's thighs.

  "Sleep, you bastard," Madeline whispered. She felt around in the dark for a way out of the cramped shed. With a rusty hammerhead she found under an empty crate, she tried to pry loose the door hinges, pausing only to check on Emily.

  Emily lay still on the bed for a long time before she sat up. Something about the limp arm drew her attention, and she moved her hand over it. Madeline held her breathe. The man didn't stir.
>
  Emily held her hand on one spot only momentarily as if the act of repairing it was trivial. She moved her hand up to the elbow. Frowning, she closed her eyes. Within moments, she was rocking back and forth. Madeline redoubled her efforts to loosen the hinges.

  Madeline stared through the window, praying for Emily to stop, but knowing she wouldn't. Madeline watched as Emily gripped the elbow with two hands, her eyes shut. Then, she squeezed.

  Doak came awake as if given a cattle prod and screamed, "What the hell are you trying to do?" He rolled away and reached for the shotgun with both hands. Then, he stopped and looked at Emily in surprise.

  Emily sat motionless, humming. Madeline strained to hear.

  Doak put the gun down and resumed his place, staring at Emily. "What'd you do?" When she didn't respond, he rolled closer and put her hand on his elbow. "Whatever, just keep at it, y'hear?" Madeline watched him put his head down as Emily resumed her familiar rocking motion.

  The hinges resisted Madeline's efforts. She wanted to scream, but silence was her ally. She kept working, stealing frequent looks at the house.

  Emily sat for a while longer with her hand on Doak's elbow, but eventually moved it up his arm, past his shoulder, and on to his skull. A look of intense concentration crossed her placid face, and the rocking continued steadily for at least an hour.

  As Madeline finally made some progress, she saw that Emily had removed her hand from Doak's head. Sweating heavily, she slumped across his body and fell asleep, just as she had after exhausting herself on Richard's army of patients.

  ~*~

  It had been dark for hours by the time Madeline broke free and sprinted to the kitchen entry. Once inside, she willed her heart to a slower pace and let her eyes adjust to the dark. Armed with a carving knife, she crept down the hall to her bedroom. She stood beside the open door, trying to ignore the sharp stink of the man in the room with her daughter.

  She crept in. Heavy, regular breathing told her they slept. She moved closer to the bed and made out Emily's slender form.

  Setting the knife aside, she gathered the girl's discarded clothes and picked her up. Madeline froze when Doak groaned and rolled away from her. Emily was dead weight. She hadn't slept so soundly in years. Doak lay on his "bad" arm, obviously without pain. His other arm lay atop the shotgun. Thanks to Emily, nothing would slow him down now.

  Madeline struggled to get the girl out of the room quietly. Fearing her own breathing would give them away, she carried her rather than risk making more noise. She stopped in the front hall to rest with Emily's head on her shoulder. Pretending the child meant it as a sign of affection, Madeline lifted her and staggered out of the house.

  She propped Emily against a tree and patted her cheek to rouse her. Carrying the girl further was impossible. Emily blinked her eyes open and yawned. After dressing her, Madeline took her hand and pulled her out onto the lawn.

  Trees masked the night sky as Madeline headed up the narrow driveway. When the front porch light went on, she pushed Emily into the bushes. She saw Doak's silhouette on the porch.

  He stepped into the yard, the light reflecting dimly from his orange jumpsuit. He flexed the arm Emily had worked on, then held the shotgun with both hands and jogged up the gravel drive straight toward them.

  Madeline eased behind a big juniper and pulled Emily in behind her. She tried to ignore the sharp sting of dry pine needles as she strained to hear him.

  "This is stupid," he muttered. "I've gotta...."

  Madeline held her breath at the halting crunch of footsteps.

  "Listen," he yelled, "I'm not... I don't... Damn it! Come on out."

  She heard him moving. Short steps. Stops. Turns.

  "I'm just confused is all. Those people I killed... I-- I need to talk to somebody!"

  Madeline squinted to make out the killer standing beside her ruined van. He kept muttering, sometimes to himself, sometimes to her, and sometimes to people only he could see.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean... Well, yeah, I did then, but not now. Now I understand. Now it means something." He slammed his fist against the side of the van and shouted. "What'd that damn kid do to me?"

  In the dark, Madeline put her hand down on a pine cone, unable to suppress a sharp breath when it cut her palm. Doak turned at the sound.

  "Will you stop it?" he cried. "I'm not-- I'm not what you think I am."

  Madeline yanked Emily to her feet and stumbled deeper into the woods praying he'd lose them in the dark.

  "Stop! Are you trying to make me shoot?"

  She heard him crash through the undergrowth behind her and realized the futility of trying to drag Emily through an obstacle course at night. Madeline slumped to the ground and tried to hold her breath. She heard the bushes part a few feet away and stared up into the killer's face, his features a gray smear.

  "Don't! Please don't hurt us." With tears streaming down her face, Madeline scrambled to cover Emily's body with her own. I'm going to die now, she thought. He's going to shoot me, and then he's going to rape Emily again, and then he's going to shoot her, too! Damn it, Richard, this is all your fault! Steeling her nerve, she looked at him over her shoulder.

  Doak stared back, his expression blank. He pointed the gun at them, and stood waiting. After a moment, he knelt and reached for Emily's shoulder. He shook it. "What did you do to me?"

  Emily seemed to look through him.

  He shook her again, harder. "What the hell have you done?"

  "Please stop," Madeline said. "She doesn't understand."

  Doak stood and backed away, then looked around as if surrounded. She couldn't see his ghosts, but they were obviously real to him.

  "I'm sorry!" His scream echoed in the dark as he moved away. "I didn't mean--" He dropped the gun and fell to his knees, his hands covering his face. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry. I'm so terribly, terribly sorry."

  Madeline stared at Emily, still lying on the ground. What had she done to him? She decided not to wait around to find out. Once again she dragged Emily to her feet, and they began moving.

  Behind her she could still hear Doak carrying on as if possessed. The longer he--

  Boom!

  The roar of the shotgun stifled all other sounds. Madeline pushed a suddenly rigid Emily to the ground where they huddled in silence. The wait seemed interminable. Emily slept. When the sky paled, Madeline shook her awake, and they began to walk again. There was no sign of Doak. With any luck, they'd be able to leave the woods by daybreak. Madeline prayed they were headed in the right direction.

  Emily stumbled, but Madeline caught her before she fell. Looking down to spot the obstacle, she saw a body clad in an orange jumpsuit. Doak lay still, the shotgun beside him, the last round fired into his brain.

  With arms outstretched, Emily moved toward him, but Madeline intervened. "No honey," she said. "You've already done everything you could for him."

  ~*~

  For the second time in years, Madeline dialed her father's number, but she felt much less tense. Emily had been released from the county hospital where they'd spent the night, and the repairs on the van would be finished in a day or two.

  "I've decided to come for a longer visit," she said when he answered, "but we probably won't arrive until next week."

  "That's fine," he said. "You had me worried. I thought you'd disappeared again."

  She laughed. "Not intentionally." Emily stood close by, staring at her reflection in the chrome coin box of the pay phone. Madeline gently brushed the hair from the girl's face. "I'm sorry we're going to be late."

  He coughed hard, then spoke in a raspy voice. "That's not important. As long as I know you're coming."

  "Are you catching a cold?"

  He hesitated before answering. "I wish it were just a cold, but that isn't why--"

  "It's okay." She smiled at her daughter, thinking how nice it would be to hear her hum again. "Maybe Emily can help."

  ~*~

  Comforted by the constant pr
essure that kept her in her seat, Emily basked in the steady vibrations of the around-thing and the soft noise made by the tall one with the good smell.

  She concentrated on shutting out most of the bad without stopping the good, too. She had gotten better at it. She wanted to sing her warm song, but that might make the around-thing stop vibrating, or worse--the tall one with the good smell might cease her soft noise. Instead, Emily kept still but remained alert.

  Gradually she sensed something had changed, and allowed her touchers to probe for the difference. There! Something inside of her that wasn't part of her. A wrongness? No, not wrong, but different--new. And tiny, oh, so tiny. She examined the new thing carefully and deemed it good.

  It made her want to sing no matter what. She wanted to sing the way she had after fixing the other tall one, the one whose colors were all wrong. The new thing wasn't like that at all. She felt so strongly that she had to sing to it, welcoming it with the sounds for safe and warm.

  And she did.

  ~End~

  "Religious experiences which are as real as life to some

  may be incomprehensible to others."

  Opinion, United States v. Ballard, 1944 -- William O. Douglas

  Avery sat at his kitchen table, trying to ignore the Closet God pacing in front of the oven. The fact that Avery could see him clearly only in mid-turn made the performance even more distracting.

  "You're not listening," the Closet God said. "You know I hate that."

  Avery blinked. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

  "Never mind. My shift's up in a couple minutes, and the busybody'll be back. She means well, but don't close your mind to other viewpoints--like mine."

  "Uh, sure." Avery glanced up at the Calorie Goddess taped to the wall next to the cookie jar. He could never keep all their shifts straight. They'd all gotten along fine in the beginning, before Avery brought the cat home. How was he supposed to know they'd get upset about it? They were gods after all, they could have warned him.

  "Well?"

  "Well what?" Avery asked.

  The two-dimensional god tapped his two-dimensional toe. "You tuned me out--again. Good luck finding clean shirts this week."