the fuck out of here.”
Ding Dong, the Witch Ain’t Dead
The crack of the truck’s keys hit the kitchen table followed by a whoosh of them sliding across the varnished wooden surface. Michael watched them ride over the tabletop and stop just short of falling off the edge.
Without breaking stride, George walked over to some of his cooking things on the side and rearranged them. The pots and pans crashed and banged as he moved them around. “What did you think of the community?”
Michael’s throat dried. “I… um… I think it looks safe. It looks like they have everything sorted out and in place.”
As George prodded and poked around in his recently made fire pit, he shook his head. “I think it looks strict. They look fucking weird; like some strange cult. I don’t trust ’em.”
George washed his hands with some old water. As he rubbed them together, he shook his head. “I told myself that when I washed my hands, the killing would stop. How naïve was I? The killing’s not going to stop for a long fucking time; especially when there’s pricks like Will pointing his gun at me.”
After drying his hands, George held up the small bag of seeds they’d given them.
“Anyway, we need to find a growing bag for these. That’s if they even grow. I still think we’ve been mugged off.” He picked the keys back up from the kitchen table and nodded at the front door. “Come on, let’s go and find a garden center.”
***
Michael sat tense next to George. After the warehouse, he’d started to trust him. The trip to Keith’s community had ruined that. No matter how well George cared for him, he’d always be the person who killed his dad. When he got angry, the monster Michael had seen at his house came out. By not being able to keep his temper in check, George had put them both at risk with the men at the gates.
With his head turned away from the big man, he watched the deserted city out of the window. Smashed glass, litter, burned out cars… this wasn’t a place where he could feel safe.
“What the fuck?” George said and braked suddenly.
Michael’s pulse quickened. When Michael looked in front of them, his stomach sank. “What the hell is that?”
“Don’t you mean, ‘who’?”
Hanging from the lamppost was a man who looked no older than about twenty-five. From what Michael could tell, anyway.
“It’s Ravi,” George said.
“You know him?”
Without replying, George opened the door of his truck, scanned around outside, then turned back to Michael. “Stay there.”
The second George stepped outside, Michael followed him. A month or two ago, he wouldn’t have been able to look at this, but things had changed.
Michael matched George stride for stride as they walked over to the man hanging from the lamppost. Like his mother’s and sister’s had, the man’s tongue protruded from his mouth.
When he looked further up, Michael balked. What the hell? The man had no eyelids. Red scabs sat above his eyes from where they’d been cut off. There were no teeth left in his mouth, and his lips were split and swollen. It looked like a hammer had been used to remove them. He had a hole in the center of his face where his nose had once been. Again, it must have been a hammer blow that did it.
Writing covered his neck and arms. One word repeated over and over, carved into his skin with a knife or some other sharp object—“CUNT.” Michael shook as he read it at least fifteen times on his first glance. Was the man dead when it was carved into him?
Every one of the man’s fingers and toes had been cut off, leaving bloody stumps behind. But the hardest part to look at—the bit Michael couldn’t avoid any longer as his eyes ran the length of Ravi’s body—was the scaffolding pole. Without getting closer, Michael couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but it looked like it had been shoved up the man’s arse. Blood and brown sludge coated the pole and had dried on it. The bottom was splayed from where it had unmistakably been hammered into him.
Michael shook, but he didn’t look away.
George finally broke the silence. “Dean.”
A cold chill ran through Michael. For as much as he hated George for what happened to his dad, Dean was the one behind it all.
When George looked across to see Michael watching him, he quickly looked around.
“Dean isn’t dead,” he said as he glanced at the