Off Season - Jack Ketchum [48]
“What time do we start in the morning?”
“What time is sunup?”
“Oh, ‘bout seven o’clock, I guess.”
“Make it seven thirty.”
Shearing groaned. “That early?”
“Seems to me, Sam, that we already made one mistake in not checking out Donner’s story in the first place. You want to make another? We got no idea what these people are up to, or who they are or where they come from, but I got an idea that anybody who raises kids that drown dogs and women ain’t exactly friendly. So I’d like to meet ‘em early in the morning, just in case anybody else meets up with ‘em later in the day, if you know what I mean.”
Shearing nodded. “You know what bothers me?” he said.
“What’s that?”
“No men.”
“Bothers me too, Sam. A lot.”
“You figure there might be more than just the two women and the kids?”
“Might be.”
“So how many men do you want me to put on the roster?”
Peters yawned. He stood up and put on his hat and coat. He turned to Shearing and frowned again.
“How many you got?” he said.
1:18 A.M.
The feast had nearly begun. Their kill hung from a greenwood spit over the fire. The thin man’s lips were slack and moist. He had peeled away her scalp with his knife and set aside the liver and kidneys while the other man cut and trimmed the branches from a young, supple birch and whittled its tip to a point. Together they worked the spit up through the kill, trussed the arms and legs together, and slung it over the fire. Now the rich aroma made them smile. They listened to the bones crackling and exploding and the sizzle of fat, and waited.
The children had built the fire well. They stood back from the carcass, pleased with themselves, watching the eldest girl turn the spit. The child in the girl’s belly moved abruptly but the girl did not notice. Behind her, two of the younger children, a boy and a girl, dipped their fingers into the pail and licked the cool blood off them. The kill was roasting evenly when they heard the others scream from behind the house.
They looked up and saw the lights go off inside and saw the big man at the front door draw his knives from his belt and run around back. The screams continued. They felt no fear, nor any real concern at the sound; only curiosity. The children were the first to move away from the fire.
The man in red commanded them to stay. They did as they were told. The thin man was already ahead of him. He put a hatchet in his belt and followed. He looked for signs of movement at the front door and windows and saw nothing. He ran to the side of the house.
As he turned the corner he saw two of the older boys kneeling on the ground, their hands covering their faces. The women were still screaming, the youngest of them—the one he liked to fuck—tearing at the front of her shirt, which he saw was wet and gleaming. She bared her breasts and he saw that she had been burned somehow. He did not understand. Neither did the other men, who looked at him for an answer. He shrugged.
He saw that the bedroom window was boarded up. They had not come through, he thought. They are still inside. If they had not tried to escape, what was this? The two children who remained unharmed were looking up at the house and pointing. The man turned and saw the open attic window. Then he saw the pan lying on the ground beside one of the women. He stooped and ran his finger along the edge. It was still warm. He put the finger in his mouth and tasted it. Fat. He smiled. Those inside were not stupid. The hunt was better now.
Nick watched the two men disappear behind the house just as Dan came tumbling off the staircase. A moment later Marjie thrust a towel into his hand and followed it with the handle of a pan of boiling water. Nick’s throat felt pinched and dry. “They’re still out there,” he said. “The kids.”
He felt Dan hesitate beside him. “We fucked up,” he said.
“This is all we got,” said Dan. “Screw ‘em. Let’s go.” Nick glanced at Marjie. She, too, seemed to hesitate. “I said let’s go!” Dan hissed.
He unbolted the door. His heartbeat