A bright light spiraled from somewhere deeper inside the forest and in the direction that Alamo had run. Just past the Hangman’s tree, named for its thick horizontal branch, Amy paused to catch her breath. Dizziness blurred her vision. A violent pain skewed her gut forcing her to clutch her stomach. Hot vomit seared her throat as she puked on a wad of tangled roots and vines. With her forearm, she wiped remnants of the puke from her mouth. Heat flashed through her body. What the heck was wrong with her?
Female. Hear me!
Amy glanced back, searching for the source of the strange and deep voice, but she saw nothing unusual. Years had passed since the last time she heard a voice in her head, and this one didn’t sound familiar, nor friendly.
With the bottom of her tank top she wiped flecks of blood from arm that had been spawned by bothersome briar bushes.
She had no time for psychosis right now, and chose to ignore the unbridled voice. “Alamo! Come back here you stupid mutt!”
The dang no-see-um buzzing her ear was the only response to her plea.
If she wasn’t a good Christian woman, she’d love to spout some choice words. Instead she bit her lower lip and flung herself through more briars and bramble. “Alamo!”
Heed these callings. The Beast’s hour comes near.
Stumbling, Amy took a hard dive to the ground. She scanned her surroundings. Nothing but overgrowth and the stretching darkness that gloomed the woods.
Forsake the mongrel. Return now to your abode.
Amy slapped hands over her ears, trying to drown the voice echoing in her mind.
The voice seethed in coarse, throaty animalistic tones.
Was this it? Was this the moment that she’d go off the deep end, never to return from the brink of sanity? Move over Aunt Carol.
Hear me, female.
“Female is my gender,” she hissed, submitting to her derangement. “Not my name.”
I come to thwart the end of all worlds.
“The only thing you’re thwarting is my grip on reality.” Amy shook her head.
Vicki, Shane’s dead sister, was the last voice she’d heard, having landed her in the looney bin. Whatever...whoever this voice was, she wanted no part of it. Her past had taught her that strange voices only led to an asylum and she very much liked living in Buckeye...with Shane...not under lock and key...and definitely not doped up on Seroquel.
“You’re not real.” Her legs trembled as she hugged her knees into her chest. Rocking on the ground, she repeated, “You’re not real.”
For several moments an eerie quietness held the forest still. She reluctantly got to her feet, wishing more than anything to be back in the trailer safe and sound.
A firm, bony hand gripped her shoulder. Screaming, she swung wildly at whatever had her in its clutches. Her long hair flung about her head, strands sticking to her sweaty face. Squeezing her eyes shut, she kicked and shook, but two hands restrained her flailing arms.
“What you doing out here all alone, cher?”
She calmed at the sound of Abe’s familiar and calm voice. Opening her eyes, stilling herself, she turned around and flung her arms around him. Shaky arms snaked around his neck. Salty tears dampened his black T-shirt and fatigues.
His waist-length silver hair, usually tied into a ponytail, now hung loose over his shoulders. Some joked that Abe looked like Jesus. Only if Jesus wore military fatigues and had a tattoo of a serpent curled around his neck and chest, the beady serpentine eyes visible between the V of his shirt.
With one calloused thumb, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “What’s got you so spooked?”
Amy hiccupped and pointed. “A light. A voice. And Alamo is lost.” The tone of her own frantic voice unnerved her.
Another eruption echoed off the darkened trees. The light continued spiraling toward the sky.
Abe’s brows lowered as he peered in the direction of the strange light and sound. “Go home, cher. Now.”
“I think it came from Sera’s Pond.”
“Don’t be so coo-yôn! Goin’ near dat there pond or house ain’t no good thing. You be smart, cher and stay away. Let me see to the matter.” Shadows framed his hard stoic face.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Poaching. Now go home.”
Normally she found Abe’s protective nature comforting, but for some reason the harshness in his tone annoyed her. “Yeah, right. You’re out here ‘cause you know something. What is it? Spill.”
“Excuse Abe’s manners.” He threw up his hands. “But I got colon polyps older than you, mon amie, which means I ain’t got to tell you nothin’.”
Amy scowled, but knew it was futile to try reasoning with the coonass. His past as a U.S. Marine combined with his Wichita and Cajun heritage made him one ornery old geezer. He was a survivalist who lived off the land. The blood in his veins made him more obstinate than a two-headed rattlesnake, each head vying for the same prey.
Abe retrieved an item from his pocket and offered Amy a small glass vial. “You be a sweet girl now and go home. You don't go worrying your pretty self over no sounds and lights in these here woods.”
Amy smiled as she took the vial. He’d been giving her the serum since forever. She never asked what it was made of. Didn’t want to know, because if she found out it contained snake urine and frog guts she wouldn’t be able to stomach it. And she didn’t want to give it up. The effects of the mysterious concoction calmed her like Earl Grey on steroids.
Though she hadn’t found Alamo, Amy didn’t like ignoring Abe’s warnings to return home. She turned to leave but hesitated. “Abe?”
“Cher?”
“Be careful.”
He gave her a nod and disappeared into the dark woods.
Amy hurried toward the trailer with the vial clutched protectively in her fist. She pushed the rude, somewhat scary voice from her mind, concentrating only on getting home.
As she broke from the vine-entangled shrubbery, she spotted the acacia. A comforting warmth washed over her. Freya still remained at her post, patrolling the edge of the woods.
Amy scooped her up. “I sure hope you aren’t seeing any wicked things in those cursed woods.”
Hissing toward the forest, Freya pushed higher into her arms, wrapping herself around Amy’s neck.
Standing at the far end of the front yard was Alamo. He’d come home. Thank goodness. The dog ran toward her. Something furry was in his mouth. As he neared, she noticed the rat’s defiled grave. The head was gone.
Fighting the urge to beat the dog senseless, she knelt on her knees and held out her hand, palm up.
With a wagging tail, Alamo crunched the head and swallowed.
“No!”
Fear not the vermin, boomed the harsh male voice in her head. Beware the Beast.
# # #
After promising to cover his shift, Shane convinced Kevin to sleep off his drunkenness. As Birch and Shane cleaned the last of the spilled whiskey off the floor, Gary, the rig supervisor entered the rec room.
Running a paper towel over his head, Shane said, “Kevin’s not feeling well. I’ll take his shift.”
Gary nodded his bald head. Tall and built like a semi, Gary was an intimidating man to most. But Shane found his blunt and crass attitude refreshing.
“Why do you reek of whiskey, Baker?” Gary leaned closer. “You been drinking, son?”
Shane shrugged. “Mouthwash.” He used the paper towel to pat his shirt. “Guess I missed.”
“Mouthwash my ass,” Gary said.
“Do a fucking piss test.”
Gary rubbed his ten o’clock shadow. He waved a scolding finger. “You think the safety meetings are a joke? I’m reporting this. You two don’t return to work until I know whether you’re still on the crew.”
“You’re firing us?” Birch asked.
“Depends on what the big wigs say, but I’d suggest having your crap packed.” He shook his head. “Shit. We’re already running short-handed thanks to five of you assholes failing the last drug test.”
With a grimace, Shane said, “I didn’t fail that drug test and I won’t fail it now.”
Gary shrugged. “Out of my hands.” He left the room.
Birch slammed a palm on the coffee table. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”
Shane frowned. “Kevin has enough to deal with.”
“And ‘cause of you so do we,” Birch said. “I don’t know about you but I got an electric bill that’s three months overdue, a car that needs a new transmission and my AC just crapped the bed. I can’t afford this, man. I need this job.”
In two large strides, Shane closed the short distance between him and Birch. “Look, dickhead, it ain’t my goddamn problem that your brat wife is bankrupting you, but I ain’t gonna turn on Kevin.”
“Fucking hypocrite,” Birch said. “You were about to thrash him and now you’re sacrificing yours and my job out of some distorted moral dilemma.”
“We’ll pass the piss test in the morning. Everything will be okay.”
Without looking back, Birch opened the door and paused in the threshold. “They find out about Kevin, we’ll be fired for covering for him.”
“They won’t find out. He’s going to sleep it off and be good to go by morning.”
“Right.” Birch opened the door.
“Wait a damn moment.” He grabbed Birch by the shoulder. “I'll take full blame for getting us into this shitpie.” It wouldn't be the first or the last time he had dragged his friends into his fuckups. But this was different than them getting hog tied and left naked on the side of a Colorado road. They could, and had laughed about that one. “I fucked up again. I'm sorry.”
With a shrug, Birch pulled away. “You always are.”
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