WARNING: This story contains pervasive sadistic violence and gore. It also contains profanity and sexual innuendo, as well as disturbing content in general.
THE RITUAL
There is always some madness in love. But there is also
always some reason in madness.
– Friedrich Neitzsche
ONE
THE NORTH CAROLINA sun shone brightly, scorching everything beneath its gaze with searing tendrils of blistering light.
There was no breeze today, and the air was dead silent. Even the midday symphony of cicada clacking was absent, here in this tiny clearing. This was a forgotten place, a place pulled out of time and even memory.
This place was the epicenter of Nowhere Land, its sadly glorious, un-remembered capital.
The clearing was completely surrounded by cypress swamps, their stagnant muck penetrated here and there by towering trees bearded with dry Spanish moss. The air reeked of sulfur, with a suffocating, rotten-egg stench.
In the center of the overgrown clearing sat a tiny brick building covered in peeling paint, with a rotting tar-paper roof and a few small, barred windows. Its door had a chain slung across it, for its own lock had long ago succumbed to rust. The sign on the door had once read “U.S. Post Office”, but alas it had long ago been rendered illegible by time and decay.
Only a narrow gravel road led to the clearing, overgrown with weeds and barely visible beneath the shadows of the towering trees. The swamp seemed languidly determined to devour the road, for the muck and stagnant water were steadily eroding its edges for miles beyond the forgotten clearing.
This place looked as though it would remain forever forgotten, inhabited only by ghosts. It appeared unlikely that mankind would ever trespass here again. Indeed, such would have seemed an insult.
But men are nothing if not prone to giving insult, and ever heedless of the respect due forgotten, secret places.
There was only silence …
And then there arose a roar in the distance, the unmistakable sound of a truck tearing down the gravel road.
Suddenly awakened from their torpor, the cicadas began clacking furiously. They increased their volume until the truck reached the clearing, skidding to a stop in front of the abandoned post office.
The truck was a shiny new king cab, painted black, with tinted windows. A hot breeze arose, as though the offended, hidden place meant to gently blow the interlopers away.
The truck’s engine rumbled to a stop as the doors opened, and two men climbed out. They were both dressed in black, with dapper pants, and shirts with the sleeves rolled up. They wore matching sunglasses, and they both had short-cropped dark hair. At a glance, they looked like photocopies of the same man, a man who was used to going incognito and could easily fade into the shadows.
The two men stood with arms crossed, waiting.
After a few minutes, another truck came tearing down the road. This one was also a king cab, but it was white. There was a shield painted on the door, shining in resplendent shades of gold. Alcott County Sheriff’s Department, read the lettering on the shield.
The truck came to a stop, just as roughly as the black truck had. The men in black made no motion as the front doors opened, and two people climbed out.
One was a portly, aging man. The other was a pretty, young woman, decidedly Latin in appearance, with her black hair pulled up into a tight bun. The old man wore a wide-brimmed hat, but the young woman did not; it seemed that her dark sunglasses and stern expression were sufficient to stave off the hot sunrays.
Both the man and woman wore matching brown uniforms, with a gold star stitched onto the breast pocket. Sheriff, read the lettering on the old man’s shield. The woman’s read Sheriff’s Deputy. The old man was armed with a holstered, semi-automatic pistol, but the woman was not.
She was carrying a shotgun, which she shouldered with a calm sense of self-assurance.
The sheriff threw open the back door of the truck and irritably reached inside.
“Get your ass out here!” he ordered, dragging someone out.
That “someone” was a lanky, young-ish man. He was tall, with a boyish face and uncombed blond hair. His expression was mild, even as he was being dragged across the overgrown lawn by the chains shackling his hands behind his back. He tried to gain his footing as he was dragged along, but he couldn’t manage it with the leg shackles on.
The men in black watched calmly as the old man dragged his prisoner slowly toward the decrepit building. The young woman stepped smartly forward and unlocked the padlock holding the chain over the door. She kicked in the warped-shut door and stepped inside.
As the sheriff dragged the prisoner over the threshold, the deputy walked around the single room inside, smashing the windows out with the butt of her shotgun to let some air in. When she was finished, she slung the shotgun by its strap across her shoulder and stood at attention in the corner, still and silent.
“Sit your ass down!” ordered the sheriff, throwing his captive into a rickety chair. “And don’t speak ’less you’re spoken to, y’hear?”
“Of course,” said the young man pleasantly.
The prisoner wasn’t un-handsome, despite being so lanky and his hair being such a mess. In fact, most women would have said that he was rather attractive in his own peculiar way. He just sat there, smiling pleasantly at the scowling sheriff.
That’s when the men in black stepped inside. They calmly sat down on similarly dilapidated chairs, across the table from the young man.
“Hello,” said one of them. “I’m Bill, and this is Bob.”
“Not your real names, I’m betting,” replied the young man, speaking with a pleasant southern accent. “But that’s okay. Federal Bureau of Investigation, I assume?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Bob coolly. “You’re Herbert Ray Bartlett, right?”
“Call me Bert,” said the young man, in a friendly tone. “Please, what can I do for you?”
“You’ve been charged,” said Bill, “with more counts of first-degree murder than I’ve seen any one man rack up in my entire career. But we’re missing details, Bert, and we’re also missing your accomplice. We know who she is now. We could never find a match for her fingerprints before, not until her neighbor—Deputy Rodriguez, here—tipped us off about some suspicious activity. We printed her home, and positively matched her to most of the murders you committed. Sheriff Fleury was kind enough to play host for the day, so we could bring you here to shed some light on the situation.”
“You could have done this at the jail, I think,” said Bert, his eyes narrowing and his tone growing colder. “It is air-conditioned, you know. And as far as accomplices go, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We wanted this … interview off the books,” said Bob. He pulled out his phone and opened a file on it.
“This is your accomplice, Bert,” he said firmly, “is it not?”
Bert took a long, long look at the photo on the phone.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said at last, looking away.
“You left her out of the story,” said Bill grimly. “Now, let’s put her in it, shall we?”
“Put who in the story?” asked Bert.
“YOU KNOW WHO!!!” roared Sheriff Fleury.
Bert looked down at the table, sweating. His jaw was tense, and his face red; clearly something –or someone—was at stake here, and he wasn’t happy about it. His expression was an odd mix of rage and terror.
“Look,” said Bill patiently, “if you cooperate, you can both reduce your own sentence and offer your courtroom testimony in exchange for reducing hers. But that’s only IF your assistance leads to her capture. If it doesn’t you’re both fucked, and her capture is only a matter of time. Got it?”
“That’s not what I want,” hissed Bert from between clenched teeth, “and it won’t be what she wants. I love her too much to sell her short, so no. Take your offer, sit on it, and twirl.”
“Then what do you want?” asked Bob, assuming a falsely intimate tone.
“We always hated it,” said Bert, his eyes radiating resentment, “when people begged for their lives …”
Gone now was the mask of geniality, of easy-going courtesy. Something near and dear to Bert Bartlett was at stake, and his intense, focused demeanor betrayed his fear.
“Why did you hate it when people begged for their lives?” prodded Bill.
“Because it’s PATHETIC!” snapped Bert. “Living life means accepting that it could end any minute. If you’re scared to die, then you never really lived. I’m alive, and so is she. And that’s why I won’t take your offer, and neither will she.”
“Then what do you want?” repeated Bob.
“Death penalty,” said Bert, his mask of courtesy slowly emerging once more.
“Execution?!” asked Bob. “You want that?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to hang her, and me with her,” said Bert, now fully back in possession of his affable smile. “We’re not afraid of dying. I’ve never loved anyone so much in my life, and prison is the last thing I want for her. I can tell you about murders in both Virginia and North Carolina, which makes our case federal because we crossed state lines. Uncle Sam loves the death penalty, and we can waive all our appeals.”
Only briefly had Bert betrayed his tension, his fear for his ladylove. Now that he sensed a chance to help her—to improve her life, instead of making it worse—he seemed to be growing more relaxed as he talked.
Sheriff Fleury hated him for that. Mask on, mask off … truly, the mark of a sociopath. “Start talking,” he ordered grimly.
“I can’t remember everything,” said Bert honestly. “Having a partner in crime is like being married, you know? You remember the very first time you made love, and a few memorable experiences after that, but you don’t remember everything.”
“Then tell us,” said Bill, “about that first time.”
“Death penalty!” said Bert firmly.
“You have my word,” said the sheriff dangerously, “that I will do everything in my power to fry both your asses! It’d be my pleasure.”
“Thank you. May I have a water, please?” asked Bert politely. “It sure is hot in here.”
“Go get him a water, Rodriguez,” ordered Sheriff Fleury curtly. “Just bring in the cooler, would you? We’re gonna be here a while.”
“What do you want to know first?” asked Bert, as Deputy Rodriguez left the room. “And thank you for the water.”
“You’re welcome,” said Bob tersely. “Tell us how you met, which I believe was on a crime scene.”
Bert bowed his head for a brief, silent moment, and held his breath. No one could have known that he was silently praying to the god that he’d abandoned, long, long ago. Please don’t let them ever catch her, he begged internally. But if they do, let my story be enough to kill us both. Throw me into the darkest pit in Hell if you must, but spare her.
“So how did you meet?” prodded Bob. “Can we talk about that?”
“Oh, sure,” said Bert, letting his breath out. “It was a cooler summer, not nearly as hot as this one. And it was late, maybe around three in the morning…”
***
Bert stepped on the gas pedal, rolling down the country road as he sang happily along to “Friends in Low Places.” He’d always loved that song, with its theme of finding happiness after surviving a painful situation. It never failed to cheer him up, reminding him that the world was, indeed, a very happy place most of the time.
The flashy pickup truck bounced and careened along, steered as much by the cracks and potholes as by its driver. Watsonville was coming up soon, but it was just a little mud-puddle of a town. He’d pass through it soon enough and be on his merry way, disappearing into the swamps that he loved so.
“Friends in Low Places” segued into “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” as Bert reached the outskirts of Watsonville. He was careful to take a side road through town. Although he and his buddies had often joked that Watsonville always “died” at nine o’clock, a few stores along the main thoroughfare might be open all night. Bert couldn’t say for sure, though. He never went to Watsonville at night, not even to the bars. He much preferred to drink out in the wild, out in his own vast stomping ground.
He turned a dark corner …
And then the truck sputtered to a stop.
“Dang it!” moaned Bert, eyeing the gas gauge as he climbed out. “Really?”
He walked around to the front of the truck, surveying the mangled grill. The front end and hood were completely covered in blood, making the headlights rather dim. He hadn’t noticed the headlights before, probably because he knew these roads so well that he could have driven them even in the dark.
As Bert stood scratching his head, wondering what to do, he heard a noise behind him. He turned, wondering what could be stirring at this hour.
There was a young woman standing there, just watching him.
Bert eyed her in wonder, taking in her pretty face and form in the feeble, red glow of the headlights. She was short, but decidedly curvy. Her stylish auburn bob blew in the slight breeze, framing her heart-shaped face, her freckles, and attractive features. Her brown doe eyes reflected the light in a bewitching shade of rust, sparkling and soft.
She was dressed lightly, as befitted a North Carolina summer, in a short denim skirt. Her dark shirt was a “concert tee”, with Megadeth’s name and grinning skull logo printed on it. That was odd, thought Bert wordlessly. She looked so sweet, so pretty, certainly nothing like one of those raucous “metal chicks” he’d known in high school.
And she was holding a gas can.
“What’s wrong with your truck?” asked the young woman, in a distinctly musical voice.
“Out of gas,” said Bert. “What are you doing out here, miss?”
“Taking a walk,” she said. “I meant, what’s wrong with your grill?”
“Oh, that,” said Bert. “Hit a deer.”
“Was it wearing a plaid shirt?”
Bert turned, eyeing the tatters of a plaid shirt hanging from the mangled bumper.
“Sure was,” he said brightly. “Damndest thing I ever saw.”
“That’s weird!” laughed the young woman. Her nose wrinkled prettily as she laughed, almost like a rabbit, causing her freckles to make a momentary shadow across the bridge of her nose.
He’d told an obvious lie, and the stranger clearly saw through it. That she was laughing about it—instead of panicking—warmed his heart in a way that he’d never before felt. Bert was about to offer the pretty stranger a walk home, when something stumbled screaming out of the nearby alley.
It took him a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. That “something” was a man…
And he was on fire.
The burning figure staggered around the street, looking like a cross between a zombie and an oversized tiki torch. Bert and his new friend glanced idly at him, and then turned their attention back towards one another.
“I’m Herbert,” said Bert, ignoring the shrill screams of the burning man. “Herbert Ray, but my friends call me Bert. I’d be honored if you did, too.”
The young woman blushed and set down her gas can. She looked bashfully away for a moment.
As she did, the burning man fell through the window of the antique store, shattering it. The dusty window displays went up like kindling, instantly setting the building ablaze.
“I’m Romary,” she said, flirtatiously fluttering her eyelashes. “Romary Anne, but my friends call me Romy. I … I’d be honored if you did, too.”
Bert took a step forward and gently took her slender hand.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Romy,” he said softly, relishing the feel of her quivering hand as he lifted it. He let the kiss linger for moment, tasting the sweat on her soft skin.
“Such pretty manners!” she giggled as he released her hand. “You charmer, you.”
The burning man fell headlong into a pile of un-collected garbage bags, setting them alight in very short order. He thrashed around in the melting bags and blazing garbage, still screaming.
“I have a confession to make,” said Romy, wrinkling her nose from the smell. “I don’t have any gas left.”
“Were you taking the can to get filled up? Is your car out of gas?”
“No,” admitted Romy. “I kinda poured it all out.”
Bert looked at the burning man, and then at the empty gas can, and then back at Romy. Dank, foul smoke began to overwhelm the street as the garbage pile, the hapless victim, and the antique store began burning even more brightly. The hardware store next door was starting to burn as well. Yet somehow, amidst all the chaos and horror, all Bert did was give his pretty acquaintance an amused smile.
“Would you like to get some ice cream?” asked Romy abruptly.
“At this time of night?”
“Trip’s Truck Stop isn’t far, and it’s open all night.” She was blushing again, as though she was surprised by her own temerity. “They have the best ice cream! If … if you’re not busy, that is. I understand if you are.”
Romy looked both hopeful and terrified at the same time. Bert looked at her a moment, wondering if he dared…
He did.
“There’s nothing I’d rather do,” said Bert sincerely, leaning forward and kissing Romy tenderly on her forehead, “than have ice cream with you.”
Romy smiled from ear to ear, and her expression was so beautiful that it made Bert’s heart ache. He had never met anyone so lovely in his entire life.
The burning man managed to extricate himself from the garbage, and promptly stumbled into a wooden, tar-covered telephone pole.
“What about your truck?” asked Romy, as the telephone pole lit up like a Roman candle.
“It’s okay,” replied Bert. “It’s not mine anyway.”
“What about your fingerprints?”
“Never had ’em taken.”
“Me neither,” said Romy, kicking over her gas can. “Shall we?”
Bert shivered as Romy wrapped her arm around his midsection and sidled close. On impulse, he stuck his hand in the back pocket of her jean skirt.
He gave her rear end a gentle squeeze as the two of them trekked companionably off through the smoke. And he thought to himself that life just didn’t get any better than this.
TWO
“THAT ‘BURNING MAN’ had a name,” said Bill, drily. “His name was Rufus Taylor. He started walking home from the local bar, and then he passed out in the alley. He thought all he had to worry about was a hangover. I’m pretty sure he didn’t anticipate being set on fire.”
“She does love her some fire, Romy,” chuckled Bert. “It’s kind of her thing.”
“So we’ve heard,” said Bob. “Now let’s talk about your thing, shall we?”
“My thing?”
“You know exactly what he’s talking about, you little shit!” snapped Sheriff Fleury, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Tell him about that friend of your little girlfriend’s already!”
“Oh, they weren’t friends,” said Bert. “But of course I can tell you. We stayed at Romy’s that night, since it was just outside of Watsonville. It was lovely walking her home, under the stars. It was even better waking up next to her. I’ve never felt so alive, you know? We felt that fate had brought us together, so we decided to spend the day celebrating…”
***
Romy said something, but Bert couldn’t make it out.
“WHAT?!” he shouted.
Romy reached over and turned the truck radio down. “Sorry,” she said, as Megadeth slowly receded in volume. “I said, this truck rides really nice!”
“It sure does,” said Bert, reaching down to tuck the mangled wires back into the ignition opening. “I wonder who it belongs to?”
“Let’s find out,” said Romy. “Here, hold this.”
Bert reached for the offered half-gallon of Jim Beam and took a long tug as Romy rifled through the glove box.
“Here,” she said. “It’s registered to some guy named Buford Harrison.”
“Oh, I went to high school with him. We called him Big Bubba. I’m surprised he has a truck like this. I always figured he’d end up in jail.”
Romy took the bottle from Bert and helped herself to a deep draught. “Well, he doesn’t own it anymore!” she said brightly, tossing the registration out of the open window. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” She licked her lips invitingly, playfully giving her new lover a sweet reminder of what she’d done with them the night before.
“It’s the best day of my life,” said Bert warmly, taking the bottle and having another gulp. “I think I just fell in love with you.”
“You think you’ve fallen in love with me?!” said Romy with mock outrage, leaning over to give Bert a kiss on the cheek. “I don’t think you ‘think’ anything, buster! And neither do I.”
“You’re right,” said Bert, taking his eyes from the road to kiss her back. “I say we just call ourselves a done deal, you and I.”
Romy squealed with laughter as Bert nearly swerved off the road. She took a slug of whiskey as he pulled a hasty course correction.
“I agree,” she said, wiping her lips. “So what do you wanna do today?”
“What do you wanna do?”
“Let’s find another one of those deer,” giggled Romy. “You know, the kind in the plaid shirts.”
“Perfect. I mean, it’s not like we’re keeping the truck, right?”
“Right!”
The new couple traveled happily along, occasionally passing the bottle back and forth. Even Megadeth’s rambunctious, snarling music seemed oddly soothing as they weaved down the backwoods road.
“Hey, look!” said Romy excitedly, pointing. “There’s our deer!”
Bert slowed the truck down, squinting. There was a woman in a red jogging suit running along the shoulder.
“I can’t run over a woman!” protested Bert. “That just seems kinda… wrong, you know?”
Romy stuck her head out of the window, taking a longer look.
“That’s not a woman. That’s a barracuda in a woman suit!” she said sourly. “That’s Tiffany Collins.”
“Who’s Tiffany Collins?”
“She used to slam my head in my locker door,” said Romy darkly, as Bert slowed the truck down even more. “And sometimes she’d pull my panties up to give me a wedgie. It got so bad by middle school that I stopped wearing panties most of the time.”
“That’s awful!” gasped Bert. “Here, let me help you with those bad memories. Put on your seat belt and hold onto the ‘oh shit’ bar, okay?”
Romy did as she was directed, after carefully setting the bottle on the floorboard between her calves. Bert waited until she was secured before he laid his foot into the gas pedal.
“WHEEEEEE!!!” howled Romy gleefully. “Now this is FUN!”
Tiffany turned to face the truck at the last possible second, her mouth open like a fish’s and her blue eyes wide with horror…
SPLAT!!!
Romy held on as Bert slowly regained control of the vehicle. Coming to a stop, he put it into reverse and backed up.
“Great job, baby!” gushed Romy. “We didn’t even spill our booze.”
The truck came to a stop just in front of what was left of Tiffany Collins. Its occupants opened the door and climbed out, holding hands as they went to examine their handiwork.
“What a mess!” cooed Romy. “It’s a good thing she was already wearing red.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’,” grinned Bert. “And look, we didn’t even crack the radiator. I hate it when that happens.”
Romy just smiled contentedly down at the scattered remains of her fallen tormentor.
“Wait!” said Bert. “Now we have to observe the Ritual.”
“What ritual?”
Bert felt himself blushing. “It… it’s one of those silly things that teenage boys come up with, but it turned into a superstition. Me and my best bud Eric came up with it. See, there’s this ceremony you have to observe whenever you run someone over. If you don’t, then the next time you drink you’ll get sick. You know, because you didn’t appease the great god Ralph. So if you fail to observe the ritual, you’ll end up praying at his porcelain altar.”
“Ew!” said Romy, making a face. “I don’t wanna end up getting sick! I hate that!”
“I’ve never done this with another person before,” gulped Bert. “ ’Cept Eric, of course.”
“Where’s Eric now?”
“Serving life in prison.”
“For what?”
“Running people over.”
“Aw, that’s terrible!” said Romy, taking Bert’s hand. “Do you ever get to see him?”
“Every Saturday, at visiting time,” said Bert, sighing. “You don’t often find a friend like that. He told me to run before he was caught. He said they already had him, but there was no point in me getting busted.”
“What a great guy,” said Romy. “You’ll have to take me to see him. So… how, exactly, does this ritual go?”
“You both point down at the mess, see,” said Bert, pointing at the splatter that had once been Tiffany Collins, “and then you say this, in unison: ooooooh… ahhhhh… WOO-HOO!!!”
“That’s it?” asked Romy. “That is silly! But I don’t wanna get sick, so I’m in.”
Taking a deep breath, she pointed down at the mangled jogger. “On three, okay?”
Bert nodded, feeling like he was going through a rite of passage. The Ritual was a very, very personal part of his past, but he knew that Romy would never truly become his soulmate until he shared it with her.
It was a nice feeling.
“One, two, three!”
“Ooooooh…”
“Ahhh…”
“WOO-HOO!!!”
THREE
“AT LEAST YOU knew that poor woman’s name!” huffed Sheriff Fleury, as Deputy Rodriguez dug a bottle of water from the cooler. She returned to her post and took a long drink, still looking quite stoic.
“The truck was found two days later,” said Bob, “completely torched. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that was Romary’s doing?”
“Yeah,” said Bert, yawning. “I always just dumped ’em in the swamp.”
“And you admit to being Eric Walters’ accomplice?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, shrugging. “Anything to help my capital case!”
“Ask him about the killings at the Fincher farm!” interjected Sheriff Fleury. “We still need to piece that one together. The crime scene was a fuckin’ train wreck!”
“Bert,” said Bill calmly, “might you tell us about…”
“I heard him, Bill,” interrupted Bert. “Romy called me one afternoon, while I was doing my shopping for the week…”
***
Bert walked through the front door of the old farmhouse, looking guardedly about. It had taken him a few minutes to find the place from Romy’s directions, so he hoped that nothing had happened to her in the meantime. He grew steadily more nervous as he walked inside.
He relaxed as he stepped out of the foyer and into the kitchen. Romy was sitting on the countertop, beaming at him. “Hey, baby!” she chirped.
There were two men duct-taped to chairs, one young and spindly, and the other old and prodigiously overweight. “How’d you tie ’em down?” asked Bert curiously.
“This dude was passed out drunk on the front lawn,” said Romy, pointing to the younger man. “So I just dragged him inside.”
She flexed her tiny biceps like a bodybuilder, causing both of them to laugh.
“The old man was already sitting in that chair,” she continued. “He tried to get up, so I hit him over the head with the fireplace tongs before I taped him up. It’s a good thing they had a whole case of duct tape in the garage. They got everything out there! Tools, camping stuff, fishing gear… you name it.”
Bert pulled Romy from the countertop and spun her playfully around. She squealed with laughter, wrapping her legs around his waist as he covered her face with kisses.
“Nice work!” he said at last, setting her gently upon her feet. “I’m proud of you. What do we do with ’em?”
“I already thought of that,” said Romy. “Here, look!”
The kitchen was open to the living room, and Romy walked over to the gun case. Its glass door was already broken, presumably by her.
She pulled out two shotguns. “I already loaded ’em,” she said. “They’re both semi-automatic, so they’re pretty dummy proof. Do you know how to use one?”
“No,” said Bert.
“How’d you grow up in North Carolina without learning to use a shotgun?”
“We were never allowed to have guns in the house, at least not after Dad shot Grandma.”
“Was it an accident?”
“No.”
“Oh,” said Romy. “Is… is that why you didn’t think it was right to hurt a woman?”
“What?! No!” laughed Bert. “Grandma was a nasty old cow. Nobody cared that Dad shot her. Except, you know, the sheriff. But yeah, Dad taught me that it’s not nice to hurt a woman unless she’s an awful person, like panty-yanking Tiffany, or my bitchy ol’ grandmother.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you weren’t sad when she died,” said Romy. “Your grandmother, I mean. I’m pretty sure nobody gave two shits about Tiffany.”
Bert nodded in agreement as his lover handed him a shotgun. “Here,” she said, “I just turned the safety off for you. Now it’s hot, so keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
Bert took the gun gingerly, pointing it toward the floor. “I’m not sure I like these things,” he said uncertainly. “They’re just so… quick, you know?”
“So’s running someone over,” said Romy brightly, sighting her gun. “But they don’t have to be. Watch!”
BLAM!!!
Romy’s shot hit the younger man square in the kneecap. He came to at that, screaming at the top of his lungs.
“Oh, quit whining!” ordered Romy sternly. “You still have one-and-a-half legs left, you big baby! Okay, you try it. Hit his other knee.”
“PLEASE!!!” cried the old man, snapping out of his pseudo-catatonic state as he looked on in horror. “I’ll give you anything, ANYTHING!!!”
Bert strode forward, and matter-of-factly smashed the old man in the forehead with the butt of his shotgun.
BLAM!!!
Romy screamed, ducking as the dusty, tacky chandelier overhead crashed to the floor. “I TOLD you that thing was hot!!!” she screeched.
“Sorry,” murmured Bert sheepishly, lowering the weapon.
“I might forgive you,” said Romy, “if you give me some extra special attention later.”
“If I do, will you wear that cute black lacy—”
“NOT in front of Drunkie McGurk here!” interjected Romy. “That’s our business! But yes, of course I will. I love the way you look at me when I get all sexy for you! So… shall we carry on?”
Bert sighted carefully, pointing the shotgun at the younger man’s surviving kneecap. He was grateful that the old man was momentarily silent; he always hated it when people begged for their lives, and so did Romy. Life is short, and when it’s over, that’s it. Both he and she were offended that people would so often debase themselves seeking a mere few minutes more of panicking, wretched life.
BLAM!!!
Bert lowered the gun, aghast.
“Ooh,” said Romy, biting her lip. “That … that wasn’t his knee, Bert.”
“AAAAAAAUUUUGGHH!!! SHIT!!! AH CAIN’T FUCK NO MORE!!!”
“Maybe we should give this guy a free pass,” said Bert regretfully, raising his gun again.
“Yeah.”
Bert sighted more carefully this time…
BLAM!!!
“Well,” said Romy, waving away the acrid gun-smoke as she wiped the spattered blood from her pretty face, “at least you hit his head just fine. What should we do with Jabba the Hutt over there?”
“Let me see what I can find,” said Bert, opening the silverware drawer. “Can you gag him for me, baby? He’s gonna come to soon enough, and I can’t take any more begging.”
“Oh, sure.”
Bert pulled forth a large butcher knife as Romy stuck a strip of duct tape over the old man’s mouth. “How’s this?” he asked.
“Now that’s some pig-sticker!”
“Right?”
Bert walked over to his shaking victim and stabbed him in the belly.
“Mmph!!! Mmmm!!!”
“Did you even hit anything?” frowned Romy. “He’s not even bleeding, he’s so big. Try his chest.”
“Good call,” said Bert, stabbing him again.
The two lovers stood for a moment, eyeing their victim.
“I’m not sure this is gonna work,” said Bert dubiously, as the old man squirmed and jiggled. “There’s just too… much of him, you know?”
“Maybe give him a scarlet necktie?” suggested Romy helpfully, running her finger across her throat.
“Oh, yeah.”
Bert walked around the old man’s chair for a moment, shaking his head.
“I can’t tell if he even has a neck!” he said in exasperation, throwing down the knife. “Screw this. I’ll be right back.”
Romy waited patiently as Bert left and returned in a few minutes.
“Now we’re talkin’!” he hooted, triumphantly raising a large chainsaw.
“What?! No!” protested Romy.
“Why not?”
“The exhaust burns my eyes, and they hurt for days! I hate that.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” said Bert contritely, lowering the chainsaw. “What do you suggest?”
Romy thought for a moment.
“I got it!” she said excitedly. “Pull the stove away from the wall for me, would you? I’ll be right back.”
Bert pulled the gas stove away from the wall, beginning to suspect that he already knew what Romy had in mind.
She returned a few minutes later, carrying a bucket of tools.
“Okay, here we go,” she said, stopping for a moment to tie her bob into a bouncy ponytail. “This will just take a minute.”
“What are you doing?” asked Bert curiously.
“This is the flex connector,” said Romy, pointing to a metallic yellow line running to the stove. “I’m just gonna shut the main valve—here—and cut it.”
She pulled a pair of tin snips from her bucket and cut through the line.
“Now, see this?” she asked, pointing to an aluminum device that reminded Bert of the Starship Enterprise. “That’s the regulator. It throttles down the gas pressure, because the stove doesn’t need all that much gas. So we’ll just spin it off.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My dad worked for the gas company. At least, he did before he…”
Romy’s face fell for a moment.
“Before what?” asked Bert softly.
“I was ten. I was playing with matches…”
“I’m so sorry,” said Bert, kneeling down and gently lifting her face by the chin. He gave her a long, reassuring kiss. “But you’re still here, and I can’t even begin to explain how absolutely crazy I am about you. I can’t wait for tonight! I love it when you…”
“Not in front of Jabba, goofy!” laughed Romy, interrupting Bert by briefly crushing her pretty lips against his. “That’s private! But thank you for making me feel better.”
Bert flushed, elated by Romy’s affection.
“So,” she said, pulling a couple of wrenches from her bucket, “we’ll just remove the regulator here. You wanna grab me that oil lantern from the mantle?”
“MMMMPH!!! MMM!!!” protested the old man, jiggling in his chair.
“Sure. Where do you want it?”
“Take it down to the end of that long hallway, off the living room. We want lots of gas to build up before the house catches fire.”
“Won’t that blow the building up?”
“MMMMMPH!!!”
“Contrary to popular belief, a gas fire can’t actually blow up a building. Most of these systems have less than two pounds of pressure, and there are backflow devices on the feeds. But it can burn a building down really, really fast. Okay, there goes the regulator. You wanna go light that lantern?”
“Got matches?” asked Bert.
“You kiddin’?” laughed Romy, fishing in the pocket of her shorts. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
“Grab some booze, too! There’s a liquor cabinet in the living room.”
“Got it!”
After he’d lit the lantern, Bert opened the liquor cabinet. “Check this out!” he said excitedly. “Johnny Walker Blue Label! Fancy, fancy, fancy … This stuff goes down like iced tea.”
“Nice!” said Romy, still kneeling behind the stove. “Can you set some lawn chairs up? At the very edge of the yard, over by the trees. I’ll be right out. I’ll wait ’til you’re gone before I open the valve.”
“On it!” chirped Bert, heading for the door with his prize bottle of Scotch.
The old man fought mightily to free himself, but he ended up falling over sideways in his chair, making a loud crashing sound as he did. “MMMPH!!!” he shouted through the duct tape.
“See what you did, you big silly?” scolded Romy, rising a little. “I had you sitting all nice and comfortable. Now you can just stay like that, since you wanna be so cranky!”
Bert was opening up the folding lawn chairs as Romy came running out of the house, slamming the door behind her.
She threw herself backwards into her chair as Bert took a leisurely seat in his. He uncorked the bottle, and offered it to Romy.
“Not yet,” she objected. “Kisses first!”
Bert bent over as Romy reached for him. He held his breath as she kissed him deeply, passionately, drinking in the manly scent of his sweat.
“Okay,” she said at last, pulling away. “I’ll take that drink now.”
She took several deep gulps from the bottle. “Wow!!!” she said, wiping her pretty lips. “That is good! Here, have some.”
FOOMP!!!
As the old farmhouse went up in flames, Romy sat bolt upright in her lawn chair. She stared at the burning building, her eager doe eyes eerily reflecting the raging fire.
She looked so beautiful, so… alive.
For her, thought Bert, he would be willing to set fire after fire. For her he would set the entire world ablaze, just to make her happy.
“I love you, Romy,” whispered Bert.
Although she would have absolutely believed—and returned—his heartfelt words, he also knew that she’d not heard them…
There was no hearing anything over her epic blaze!
FOUR
“THEIR NAMES WERE Delbert Fincher and Delbert Fincher Junior,” said Bill. “It was lucky that Martha Fincher was visiting her sister at the time.”
“Oh, Romy wouldn’t have hit the place if she’d been home,” said Bert serenely. “Messing with an old lady just seems kind of… well, mean. Romy’s not like that.”
“NOT LIKE THAT?!” shouted Sheriff Fleury, red-faced, pounding his fist on the table. “We couldn’t even put that fire out, you little shit! Just had to shut off the gas and let it burn.”
“Sheriff, please,” said Bob, raising a hand. “When the state police tried pulling you over, Bert, they said they saw two people in the truck. When they finally caught up with you, you were alone. Would you like to tell us what happened?”
“When Eric took the fall for me,” said Bert, leaning forward, “I promised him I’d pay it forward, and I did. I only fled long enough to get around a couple of bends, and then I let Romy out so she could hide in the woods. I love her, Bob. I’d do anything for her. If you didn’t already have her nailed based on the evidence, I’d never have told you anything. As it is, it feels good to talk about the good times.”
“GOOD TIMES?!” roared Sheriff Fleury, rising. He shoved Bill and Bob roughly aside, so he could lean over and look Bert in the eyes.
“Good times, you say?” he whispered dangerously. “Tell me, you little psycho… Tell me how you do it. Tell me how you sleep at night?”
“It’s easy,” said Bert. “You just lie down and close your eyes. Why?”
“Doesn’t it bother you? Remembering what you did?”
“Should it?”
“Why do you do it?”
“Why do people do anything?” asked Bert reasonably. “Is there really any point to analyzing everything? Love is accepting a person’s dark side as well as their good qualities. Then you realize that their dark side is really fun, and after that it all just kinda runs together.”
Sheriff Fleury rose slowly, unable to break his gaze away from Bert’s calm, placid eyes. Morality, he realized with horror, is utterly impotent in the face of raw apathy.
True monsters aren’t vicious.
True monsters are footloose and carefree, and that’s what makes them so very, very frightening. It’s not that they’re malignant…
They’re just indifferent, and that’s more terrifying than malice could ever be.
“I got news for you, asshole!” snarled Sheriff Fleury. “We lied about finger-printing your little girlfriend’s home! Oh, Rodriguez here reported her, all right, for some weird goings-on. But when we showed up, her place was burned to the ground, and she’d disappeared. What do you think of tha—?”
BLAM!!!
Bert turned his head as his face was splattered with blood. Sheriff Fleury remained standing for a moment, but only for a moment. It is rather difficult to keep one’s feet without one’s head, after all. Slowly, his body fell to the floor.
Bill and Bob jumped up, reaching for their concealed sidearms. Deputy Rodriguez blasted Bob square in the middle of the chest, sending him flying across the room. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Bill managed to get his pistol out before the deputy shot him, but he had no opportunity to return fire. Rodriguez blasted him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling and his gun flying across the room.
She retrieved the pistol and tucked it into her belt. Pulling a set of keys from her pocket, she freed Bert’s hands, and then knelt to unlock his leg shackles.
“Thank you,” said Bert, rising. “Why… Why did you do that?”
Deputy Rodriguez laid her shotgun on the table and reached for her hair.
She pulled out the tight bun and shook out her jet-black bob. Then she took off her dark glasses…
“Romy,” breathed Bert, meeting her affectionate gaze with relief.
“I’ve never dyed my hair before,” said Romy. “Do you like it?”
“It suits you,” smiled Bert, putting his arms around her and pulling her close. “How long did you have to sunbathe for?”
“Spray tan,” grinned Romy. “I just hope it doesn’t turn orange as it fades. Is this a good look for me?”
“Well, you do have a bubble butt,” said Bert, kissing her on the forehead. “Kind of a ‘Jennifer Lopez’ caboose, you know?”
“Jerk!” murmured Romy, pressing her lips against her lover’s.
Time itself came to a stop, and it seemed that the universe had suddenly come back into alignment. Sometimes two people are just meant for each other, and the world is out of balance whenever they’re forced apart.
“Wait,” said Bert, pulling away. “Where’d he go?”
“What?”
“Bill. Where’d he go? He’s not here.”
“Whoops,” said Romy ruefully.
Bert ran to the door, looking outside. “I can see the blood trail,” he said, squinting. “Must be Bob has the truck keys. Get them, would you?”
Romy fished in Bob’s pants pocket and retrieved the truck keys. “Let’s go!” she said, chasing Bert at a dead sprint towards the truck.
Thankfully the truck had running boards, because otherwise she would have had trouble climbing in. She could barely see over the steering wheel, and she had to move the seat forward, but she managed to reach the gas pedal.
“I could’ve driven, you know,” said Bert.
“I got this!” said Romy stubbornly, throwing the truck into gear.
The truck careened down the gravel road, kicking up a cloud off chaff as it tore off in pursuit of the man who called himself Bill.
“I knew he wouldn’t make it far,” said Romy smugly. “Look!”
“He’ll throw himself into the swamp before you get him,” said Bert, nervously clutching the dash.
“He’s probably in shock,” said Romy. “Just following the road on instinct. Anyway, it’s worth a try, and we can always shoot him later. Hold on!”
Romy floored the gas, surprised at how well the truck handled the rough terrain.
She’d been right about the shock. Bill seemed oblivious to the approaching truck.
SPLAT!!!
Both the driver and passenger-side airbags exploded in an instant, making it impossible for Romy to see. She just stomped the brake, hoping for the best.
The truck spun around several times, but thankfully it didn’t roll over. It came to a stop facing the opposite direction from which they’d come.
As the airbags deflated, the lovers had trouble seeing through the windshield.
Bert reached soberly over and turned on the windshield wipers.
As the wiper fluid slowly washed the blood from the windshield, Romy and Bert surveyed their handiwork.
“The front end’s toast,” observed Bert. “We’ll have to walk back and take the sheriff’s truck. Good thing Bill didn’t make it far.”
Romy sat quietly for a moment.
“Do you wanna get a drink?” she asked abruptly.
“Do I? I’ve been in jail for weeks!”
“I thought so,” said Romy, opening the truck door. “Well, I guess we’d better get to it, then. Don’t wanna end up getting sick, you know?”
“What happened to Deputy Rodriguez?” asked Bert curiously, climbing out of the truck.
“Well, I couldn’t very well steal her identity with her still alive, could I?” asked Romy, walking around the truck and taking Bert’s hand. “Somebody would’ve noticed. Besides, I needed somewhere to stay after I burned down my own place.”
“How’d you do her job?”
“It wasn’t that hard,” said Romy. “I just said ‘yes, sir’ whenever the sheriff told me to do something, and then I did it. Pretty mindless, honestly.”
“You’re so clever!”
“So … the Ritual, then?”
“Yeah,” said Bert. “Exactly how are we gonna do the ritual? I don’t even know where to point.”
“Me neither,” agreed Romy. “I mean, there’s a lot of him on the road. But there’s also a lot of him in the mud, and quite a bit dripping from the trees. There’s a fair amount of him stuck in the grill, too.”
“Well, let’s just find the biggest pile, then.”
The lovers looked around for a few minutes, and then agreed upon the best spot to perform the ritual.
But before they did, they held hands and looked into each other’s eyes, just thinking, just enjoying the moment.
And in that moment, Bert suddenly discovered the answer to the erstwhile sheriff’s question.
Why do you do it?
Because pushing other people out of this life bought him room to breathe, room to live. Space in which to enjoy this world, to enjoy her. It was a simple answer, but a profound one. He was surprised that he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
“Bert?” whispered Romy.
“Yeah?”
“You… you’ll have to drink alone. I’m pregnant.”
Bert stood in stunned silence for a moment.
“Bert?” prodded Romy, looking insecure.
“That’s wonderful!” gushed Bert. “You’re gonna be the best mom ever!”
“Aw, really?”
“Yes!”
“I love you so much, Bert,” said Romy, leaning up to kiss him. “Can I still do the Ritual if I’m not drinking?”
“Of course. And I love you even more.”
“Okay, on three then. One, two, three!”
“Ooooooh…”
“Ahhh…”
“WOO-HOO!!!”
Bert took Romy’s hand, and the two started the trek back to the abandoned post office.
“So where do we go?” he asked. “Now that we’ve avoided the death penalty?”
“Somewhere remote,” said Romy. “Somewhere where hardly anyone lives, and the technology is fifty years behind the times. Somewhere where people mind their own business, because messing around with other people’s business will get you shot.”
The lovers paused, looking at each other for a moment…
Then the light bulb turned on.
“West Virginia!” they said, in perfect unison.
They laughed as they shared a quick kiss and began walking hand in hand towards the setting sun.
“Hey,” said Romy abruptly. “Should we burn down the building, so we can hide any evidence that you were there? You know, buy us some time?”
“Baby, that building is made of cinderblock,” objected Bert dubiously, “with a concrete floor. I’m not sure it’ll burn.”
“I’ll go ‘cowgirl’ on you while we watch it burn,” offered Romy, shaking her bust invitingly. “Right on the lawn. Whatcha think about that?”
Bert caught his breath, feeling a sudden tingle in his nether region. “Okay, you got me there,” he conceded, “but are you sure it’ll burn?”
“Everything is flammable,” said Romy sagely. “Persistence is the key.”
The End
