The Roaming Page 2

  “Here?” Markus asked, his hands in the air, face contorted in confusion. “What if someone drives by?”

  “Really? Yes, here. Just fucking do it!” Damon shouted.

  “Fine,” Markus relented, knowing that at this point he had no choice but to see their boss’s demands through, damn the consequences.

  Sticky mud engulfed Markus’s shoes. Each step was grueling. He struggled against the suction as he made his way to the trunk of the car.

  Damon, still fuming, slammed his door shut, catching his coat in the process. Something hard tucked away in his pocket prevented the door from closing but managed to dent the car’s body and chip the paint. “Fuck, now this is some bullshit!”

  Markus surveyed his surroundings for curious onlookers, though the darkening forest could have held scores of watchful eyes and he would have never noticed in the waning light. As he opened the trunk of the car, a foot burst from the darkness, hitting him square in the face. Markus fell to his knees, screaming in agony. His smashed nose and busted lip gushed with blood. “Motherfucker!” Markus clenched his nose and doubled over in pain as a shirtless, handcuffed man leaped from the trunk and ran for the tree line.

  Bullets whizzed by the bound man as Damon fired several rounds from his 9mm. None of his shots connected; the man quickly disappeared into the forest.

  “Get up, Markus!”

  “Fucker broke my nose.” Searing pain blurred his vision as he regained his balance and rose to his feet.

  Damon helped his friend from the deep muck. “We’ll have more than that to worry about if he gets away. Let’s move.”

  The two men trudged over the mud and gave chase through the unfamiliar and rapidly darkening forest. Branches flew by, whipping the men in their faces. The soft forest floor and slippery wet logs strewn about slowed their pursuit. Letting the bound man escape was unthinkable. Demetrius’s displeasure with Damon as of late was not lost on the young man, and their present situation would only prove his father right.

  Demetrius would often comment on how Damon had no drive, that the boy reacted to a situation as opposed to being the architect of one. Chasing the bound man through a forest in the middle of nowhere was a testament to that. Another thick patch of undergrowth tripped the men up. While struggling to push through, Damon realized that the bound man had eluded them.

  A few months back, the bound man had gotten in over his head with the wrong people. A bad gambling habit and the expenses of a newborn child left him crushed with debt.

  Just one more night at the tables. I can turn this around, he thought.

  Three months later, with his bank account empty and absolutely no way to repay the seventy-three thousand dollars he owed the Greeks, he awoke to find himself tied up in the trunk of a car, terrified.

  The bound man ambled through the woods. Duct tape covered his mouth, making it hard to breathe, and his long, tangled blond hair matted to his face and made it difficult to see. He weaved in and out of the trees, but being handcuffed behind his back was throwing off his balance. Branches smacked him across the face. Some only scraped the skin; others cut like razors. Ducking beneath a low-hanging tree branch caused him to lose what little balance he had, throwing him sideways into a pine. The impact snapped his collar bone. Agony sent him to his knees. His muffled screams were audible through the tape covering his mouth.

  Exhausted and dizzy but not yet broken, the bound man found the strength to get to his feet and continue running. Thoughts of his wife and new daughter helped propel him through the twilight forest. If he could just keep running, those two thugs might tire and give up the chase. Heavy footfalls into the soft forest floor impeded his progress. His feet felt like bricks, and it was a struggle to maintain balance. Hopping over a large wet log, he mistimed his jump and came down on its slick surface. His feet yanked out from under him, and for a moment, gravity seemed to disappear. The bound man came down hard, face-first into a mud puddle, his feet stretched out over the back of his head. The sudden impact dazed him to the edge of unconsciousness. Adhesive mud caked his hair, gluing it to his face as he raised his head from the mud puddle. His sinuses burned as he sucked mud into his nose in a desperate bid for air. The bound man’s head was almost clear of the filthy water when his face exploded in a shower of blood, gray matter, and skull.

  Damon stood directly above the man, his gun still pointed down at his victim. A blank stare betrayed his apathy toward the deed.

  “Holy shit. The guy’s still alive!” Markus shouted in disbelief. He gasped in horror at the sight of the bound man lying at Damon’s feet. Whereas moments ago there existed a man’s face, all that remained was a blood-filled crater. Tiny bubbles erupted from the center.

  “Let’s go.” Damon turned from his victim.

  “We can’t just leave him like this, man. He’s still alive for Christ’s sake,” Markus pleaded.

  “Then do something about it, but I’m leaving.” Damon put his gun away and began the long trudge back to the car.

  It relieved Markus that he didn’t have to shoot the man first, though for his part he was no less guilty of murder. “Please forgive me,” he whispered before shooting the man twice in the chest, then once more in what remained of his head. “Man, that was a tough son of a bitch, huh?” Markus said as he spun around. Fearing Damon might be listening, Markus thought it best to inject a moment of levity into the situation, lest his compassion be mistaken for weakness. That was something he’d prefer Demetrius not hear about. “Should we bury him?”

  “With what? We left the shovels in the car.”

  Markus broke off a few low-hanging branches to cover the bound man’s body. It was the least he could do, seeing as how they would leave him here, never to be seen or heard from again, his friends and family left pondering the fate of a loved one.

  “Let’s just go. No one’s going to find him all the way out here in the middle of nowhere anyway or even know who the fuck he is if they do.” Damon kicked one of his designer shoes against a tree, leaving a large chunk of mud behind.

  “Look at my goddamn shoes, man. What the fuck!” He continued to curse their situation, more of a release of sorts than looking for any kind of validation from Markus, who was well aware of his friend’s short fuse.

  Markus looked on at Damon’s display, then back at the man lying dead behind them. He was barely visible in the encroaching darkness. We just killed a man, he thought. And all you care about is that your shoes got dirty.

  The lack of even the slightest bit of empathy on Damon’s part over the murder disgusted him. Maybe the guy had it coming—maybe he didn’t—but that didn’t mean Markus had to like it. As a matter of fact, Markus was coming to terms with just how fed up he was becoming with Damon and this whole lifestyle. Part of him yearned to just get in his car and drive, not stopping until he reached some lonely, forgotten little town in the middle of nowhere, a place where he would be free to start over without the stigma of his past erecting walls he couldn’t hope to climb. A pipe dream, really. His required loyalty to Demetrius would have to override any secret desires he might have once harbored. In that instant, hiking through the woods, Markus realized his life would forever be in the hands of someone else. Life and death decided by the whims of an old man with a cruel heart. Markus’s destiny was not his own to decide anymore, if it ever was to begin with. The reality of it all was crushing.

  One step at a time, they trudged through the forest, bumping against trees and tripping over large rocks. All around them, the Pine Barrens were alive, sounds of wildlife alien to two denizens of a concrete jungle. Their legs and backs were sore from what was surely thousands of footfalls into the soft forest floor. Hours of walking was taking its toll on them. They meandered through the dense forest. The bright moon overhead offered little benefit beneath the thick canopy. Frustration gave way to panic. The realization that they would inevitably end up spending the night in this unfamiliar forest so far from the streets of Baltimore terrified them both, a
lthough pride and ego prevented either from speaking on it.

  Damon leaned against a tree. The full moon high above barely illuminated the forest floor. He struggled to read his watch again under what little light shone through the trees.

  “What time is it?” Markus asked.

  “I can’t even tell. I haven’t been able to read this thing for hours. This is fucking ridiculous, man.”

  “Face it, Damon. We are lost as fuck.”

  “Someone had to say it. Come on, I think the car’s this way.”

  Hours passed, and the scenery never seemed to change until finally, as if a prayer had been answered, a break in the forest appeared in front of them. Beyond that was what looked like a clearing. They cautiously approached this discovery, inching ever closer until they hovered at the tree line. A tinge of hope began to swell. Breaking through the foliage, they found themselves at the edge of a field. Towering corn stalks filled the landscape as far as the eye could see.

  “I think I see a house.” Damon’s eyes were adjusting to the luminous moonlight.

  Relieved at the sight of civilization, even one as alien as a rundown farmhouse might have seemed to them, they emerged from the forest and stepped out into the cornfield. In the distance, illuminated by the bright full moon, the unmistakable silhouette of a small two-story house loomed on the horizon.

  “Thank Christ, we’re saved!”

  Markus didn’t exactly share Damon’s enthusiasm. “We’ll see. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I can’t make out any cars and the place looks dark. It might be abandoned.” Markus prayed that the old farmhouse was abandoned. After the night they’d had, he feared for the safety of anyone inside who might attempt to stand up to Damon if the situation escalated.

  Mindful to stay in shadow, they emerged from the cornfield, weapons drawn, and slowly crept onto the front porch of the house.

  Markus peered into a blackened window for signs of life, though the bright moon made it nearly impossible to see into the darkened home. “I can’t make out anything in there. You think anyone’s home?”

  Damon whispered, “Quiet.” He gently pushed on the front door. The pair of them were surprised to find it unlocked.

  Tentatively, they made their way through the opening and into the house, quietly making their way through the living room and heading toward a dimly lit kitchen. An old TV illuminated one corner of the small room. Its light revealed piles of dirty dishes, some with uneaten, rotting food on them.

  On the television, a news reporter read from a jumbled mess of papers in front of her. Neither could hear what she was saying with the TV on mute, though. Markus nudged Damon’s arm, bringing his attention to the TV. The crawl at the bottom of the screen read, “CDC – Pandemic strikes Northeastern United States – several cities under martial law – all nonessential workplaces have been closed indefinitely – all unofficial air traffic to and from the Eastern Seaboard has been grounded indefinitely – Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Richmond have National Guard units in place enforcing mandatory region-wide curfews – region-wide quarantine is being considered.”

  Markus whispered, “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know.” Damon checked the landline. “It’s dead. Come on, we better make sure no one’s home.”

  Silently, the men made their way to a staircase leading to the house’s second floor. Aged, worn-out steps creaked and moaned under every footfall as the two men cautiously ascended. The stairs led to a very modest second floor that featured only two small bedrooms connected by a narrow hallway with a cramped bathroom tucked between them.

  Damon opened the bathroom door. He peered inside to find three badly decomposed bodies, two naked, all three with gunshot wounds to the head and what appeared to be quite a few injuries.

  Were they attacked by dogs? he pondered.

  “What the fuck!” Markus yelled, pushing past Damon for a cautious glimpse at the grisly sight.

  Damon put a finger to his lips, signaling the other man to be quiet.

  They continued to the larger of the two bedrooms. Slivers of moonlight shone through the curtains, revealing the silhouette of a man and a woman lying in bed, barely recognizable in the darkness. The stench of rot permeated the air, and the buzzing of a thousand pairs of tiny wings rang in their ears. Damon pulled aside a thick hand-woven curtain, desperate to let in some much-needed moonlight.

  Partially illuminated, the room revealed its appalling contents. A woman’s corpse lay peacefully on the bed, hands folded against her belly, her white nightgown wrinkle-free as if fresh from the wash. A pillow rested atop her head. A black hole in its center betrayed the burns of a single gunshot. Barely visible in the dim light, a pool of blood had formed under the corpse, spreading halfway down the woman’s body and staining the mattress.

  A male corpse was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, his back against the headboard, though slumped forward. The man’s head was nonexistent. His neck ended in a dried bloody stump, the remains of which adorned the wall behind him. The wall was spattered with bloody chunks of meat and bone of all shapes and sizes, forever dried to its surface. A shotgun lay across the corpse’s chest, its finger bent and frozen awkwardly on the trigger. On a nightstand beside the bed lay a bible and a spent revolver.

  “The fuck is this, D?”

  Damon didn’t reply as he took the suicide man’s revolver and tucked it into the back of his pants. He pulled aside a dusty curtain for a peek outside. The bright full moon finally began to dip behind the tree line. The sun would begin its climb soon. He thought it best that they not be there when it did. Far too many questions they didn’t possess answers to if someone were to show up looking for these people. “See if he’s got any keys on him. Looks like they have a truck out front. I’ll check the other room and meet you downstairs.”

  Damon stood just outside the door of the smaller room. A moist slurping and crunching emanated from the darkness. The eastern portion of the house remained in shadow. The moon offered no reprieve from the gloom this area was bathed in.

  Slowly adjusting to the darkness, Damon recognized that he was standing in a child’s bedroom. Two small beds in the center of the room were unmistakable. In each bed rested the body of a small child—a boy and a girl, specifically. Both were killed in the same manner as their assumed parents: single gunshot wounds to the head. Damon covered his mouth and leaned on the doorway for support, lest the gruesome discovery put him on the floor. A large shape came into view as the darkness began to betray its secrets. Damon strained to comprehend what his eyes were showing him. The silhouette of what appeared to be a man leaned atop the dead boy. His eyes continued to adjust to the darker room. He could discern that this man was filthy, covered from head to toe in dried blood and dirt. Similar to the bodies in the bathroom, this man appeared to have sustained massive injuries as well. Damon was sure the man’s right arm was badly broken and dangling at his side. With that, it hit him, and all at once Damon realized what he was witnessing—the filthy man was chewing on the little boy’s arm.

  Damon screamed, “Get the fuck off him!” He fired two shots into the filthy man’s chest.

  Unfazed, the man lunged at Damon, forcing both men from the room. They struggled in the hallway, the filthy man furiously trying to bite and scratch at Damon. During the scuffle, both men crashed through the railing and tumbled down the stairs. As they fell, Damon lost track of his gun; it disappeared into the night. At the bottom of the staircase, Damon struggled with the filthy man, his putrid black mouth inches away from Damon’s face.

  A broken banister smashed against the filthy man’s face, forcing the cannibal off of Damon. Markus stood above the man, repeatedly crushing his skull with the makeshift club. The noise of bone and meat grinding against the floor, combined with the man’s horrid stench, caused Damon to unleash the contents of his stomach onto the wooden floor. The filthy man stopped moving, his head caved in against the unforgiving hardwood, the fingers of his broken arm still ta
pping an almost recognizable rhythm against the floor.

  Markus dropped the gore-encrusted bludgeon to better help his friend to his feet. “Where the hell did he come from?”

  “I don’t know, but there are two dead kids up there.” Damon brushed some dirt off his coat and spit onto the floor. “He was eating the little boy’s arm.”

  “Bullshit.” Markus scanned the darkened second floor from below.

  “Go look for yourself. Sickest shit I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure.” Damon leaned hard against the wall to right himself and spit again.

  Markus paced, confused and desperate for answers. “Well fuck him. He’s not eating anybody now. So what do you think? He kill all these people? Was he just crazy?”

  “I don’t have the slightest clue, man, and to be honest, I don’t even give a shit. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Damon brushed himself off, his designer shoes scuffed and scratched beyond repair. His custom suit hadn’t fared much better. “Did you find any keys?”

  “No dice, but I did find these.” Markus handed Damon a half-full box of revolver ammo. “Should we keep looking for those keys?”

  “No, I just want to get as far away from this place as we can. As fast as possible. When I opened the curtains upstairs, I thought I saw some lights over the next ridge. Hopefully it’s a gas station or something.”

  Unnerved, they abandoned the old farmhouse and followed the driveway out to a dirt road. Their silhouettes grew smaller in the distance. Damon and Markus were quick to put the small house and its occupants behind them. Off to the side of the road, obstructed by overgrowth and hidden from view, a dilapidated sign read, “Pepperbush 6 miles.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pepperbush

  Pepperbush lay safely tucked away in a far-off corner of the northern New Jersey Pine Barrens. It was a considerable drive from the nearest major thoroughfare, and travelers seldom found themselves there. On rare occasions, though, it happened, and those people were either expected or hopelessly lost. That was not to suggest its residents were country folk or simple by any means. Far from it for the most part. Pepperbush had no patience for lost tourists or thrill-seekers looking for explorable caves or some elusive devil; such things were frowned upon. The place was certainly no destination for adventure. Families chose to live there to escape metropolitan congestion, and if you didn’t get it, you just didn’t get it. Strangers were welcomed with open arms, but please leave was the unspoken rule of the day. Antique-shopping and sightseeing were met with reserved eye rolls and a polite push toward the next town. Ellicott City, one hundred miles south, was often suggested. “But we just came from Baltimore,” was a vocal, confused disappointment often uttered by perplexed tourists. Similar sentiments were shared by visitors from Philadelphia, Washington DC, or even as far away as Pittsburgh. Some people just wanted to be left alone. Crisis or not, was any outsider ever really welcome in Pepperbush?