Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors (27 page)

I woke up sometime around midnight after a bad dream of
flesh-eating religious-groupie zombies.
 
My mouth was as dry as a Grandma’s ass and when I reached over for some water, I noticed
Morty
was missing.
 
With a curse, I jumped up and went searching for the asshole.

Off to the left of the cave’s entrance was a row of huts.
 
I tip-toed to the first one and peeked inside.
 
There were two beds, each containing a softly snoring figure.

I nudged the door silently closed and slipped to the next hut.
 
Morty
stood three huts down.
 
He’d just exited a hut, the knife in his hand dripping the blood of his efforts.
 
He must have started at the other end.

He saw me at the same time I saw him.

He smiled weakly.
 
“I don’t know what these people are, but I’m not leaving them behind to chase me down,” he whispered.
 
“Jesus, talk about born again Christians.
 
These folks bring new meaning to the word.”

“That’s not even funny.”

“I don’t give a damn.
 
These folks have screwed with my head.
 
I don’t know anything anymore.
 
All I know is with them dead, we’re safer.”

“They’re just going to come back in the morning.
 
Leave the poor folks alone.
 
Don’t you think you’ve caused them enough pain?”
 

I said it and it made sense, but it was so ridiculous.

Morty
smiled.
 
“I’m one step ahead of you, pal.
 
Once they’re all dead, I’m
gonna
burn them.
 
Burn them until nothing’s left.
 
If need be, I’ll spread the ashes from here to Raleigh.
 
Let them try and come back from that.”

“Don’t do it
Morty
,” I pleaded.
 
“We don’t know anything about these people.
 
We’re lucky they didn’t kill us.
 
We don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“Exactly,” he said.
 
“We don’t know what they’re capable of.
 
So I’m
gonna
make sure there is nothing left.”

I shook my head slowly.
 
There seemed to be no way that I could keep being a watcher.
 
It was time to be a doer.

I pulled out the gun and pointed it at
Morty’s
chest.

“No, you’re not,
Morty
.
 
Let’s get in the car and leave now,” I said as forcefully as I knew how.

He looked at me sadly, “What are you
gonna
do, Dan.
 
Shoot your best friend?”

“If I have to,” I replied.
 
I pulled the hammer back like I had seen him do with Brother John.
 
It was harder than I expected and I had to use both my thumbs.
 
His eyes widened appreciably.
 
His smile turned into a malicious sneer.
 
He began walking toward me.

“You better put that down, before you hurt yourself.”

I saw the tip of the knife pointed at my heart.
 
I looked into his eyes and saw nothing there I recognized.
 
He was a complete stranger to me.
 
I pulled the trigger and felt the gun buck in my hands.
 
The bullet hit him in the center of the chest and I watched mutely as he was hurled backwards.
 
He stared down at the blood pumping from the impossibly large fist-sized hole and died.

I pulled his body over to the fire.
 
I was exhausted—spiritually and emotionally.
 
I didn’t need any more crap.
 
If I wanted to survive the road, however, I needed to get some sleep before I started out in the morning.
 
Also, I didn’t want to leave like a thief in the night.
 

I didn’t want these people to think that I was the one who killed them.

Again.

The next morning, I explained to Brother John what had happened.
 
He shook his head sadly when he looked over at
Morty
. I wasn’t sure if it was because
Morty
was a psychopath or if it was because I had interfered with God’s will.

They talked me into staying until noon, with the promise that they’d load my car with fruit and water for the trip.
 
They could tell my sanity was precariously perched and they spent every opportunity counseling me in an attempt at lightening my spiritual baggage.
 

I sat and listened, letting it come in one ear and mentally shoving it out the other before any of the insane ideas had a chance to take root.

The lunch bell gonged and we returned to the communal cave to eat and say our good buys.

“Hello, Dan,” said
Morty
, standing by the blackened logs of the fire pit and holding the bell.

My legs trembled and threatened to fail.
 
The villagers seemed equally shocked.
 
I found that a little strange, knowing their own propensity for returning from the dead.

“You know, that really hurt,” he chuckled as he rubbed his chest.
 
The blood had dried and the hole had disappeared, but the shirt still proved the event.
 
“But what a rush!”

“
Morty
,” I said, unable to keep the quaver out of my voice.
 
“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I guess God has a special purpose for me too,” he said with a wink and a grin.

At the mention of God, the villagers began to murmur among themselves.
 
The Brother was gesticulating wildly towards
Morty
. Their voices became louder.
 
I finally understood what they were saying.

“The Christ.
 
He is the Christ,” they were saying.

Morty’s
smile grew from ear to ear.
 
He had never seemed so happy.
 
“They think
I
am the Son of God, Dan.”
 
He began laughing uncontrollably.

I rushed over and tugged at Brother John’s arm.
 
“This isn’t the Christ,” I said.
 
“It’s only
Morty
.
 
He came back just like the rest of you.”

His eyes rested on mine.
 
“Our holy book says
‘And one shall come among you with the sins of the world on his shoulders…although he is not of the chosen, He will die and rise again.
 
He will provide for you and succor you in your times of need.
 
He is the Christ, so love him.’
”

“Do
ya
hear that,” shouted
Morty
over the din.
 
“I’m the Christ.”
 
He raised his arms skyward.
 
“I am the Christ.”
 
The final word echoed throughout the cave along with his laughter.

Brother John and the villagers knelt before him and bowed their heads in reverence.
 
Morty
took on an imperious demeanor and strode over to Brother John’s kneeling figure.

He winked at me, placed his hand atop the Brother’s head and spoke in a commanding voice, “Arise, Brother John.
 
Arise.
 
I am the Christ.
 
Love me.”

Brother John rose and bade the kneeling multitude rise, also.
 
They placed
Morty
atop their shoulders and headed towards the huts in a grand processional.
 
A solitary voice floated up from within the group.
 
The rest soon joined in and accompanied the procession with a hymn.

I was completely and utterly amazed by the turn of events.
 
All I could do was followed at a distance, mindful of the gun still tucked in my waistband.
 
The procession passed the huts and entered a small clearing.
 
In the center was an immense cross, sunk firmly into the ground.
 
They stood
Morty
before it.
 
He turned, smiled beatifically at his worshippers and jokingly placed his arms along the length of the cross which were immediately seized from behind.
 
Four large men secured his wrists to the arms of the cross with lengths of rope.
 
Two women wrapped another rope quickly around his feet, securing them to the shaft of the cross.

Morty’s
shouts of confusion were lost amidst the singing. A man in the rear of the group produced a curved, single-edged knife and passed it forward.
 
The blade glittered wickedly in the sunlight.
 
I began to edge backwards.
 
A large wooden bowl was also making its way forward.
 
Brother John soon held the items in either hand.
 
He brought his arms up.
 
The singing stopped and the congregation knelt in the wildflowers of the field.
 

Brother John turned and kissed
Morty
passionately upon the lips.
 
Then, in a quick sure movement, he drew the blade across
Morty’s
neck.
 
Morty
tried to cry out, but couldn’t get enough air for a scream.
 
The blood gushed forth in a bubbly rush.
 
Before any could hit the ground, Brother John deftly moved the bowl into position and the torrent quickly filled it.

He held the bowl high.
 
“This is the blood of Christ.
 
Blood he sheds to wash away our sins.”

Before I turned and left, I saw the agonized look in
Morty’s
eyes.
 
He had become their permanent fountain of redemption.
 
He knew he wouldn’t die.
 
And I am sure he wished he could.

by David Whitman

T
he old man ruffled his leathery hands through the child’s blonde hair.
 
“You know something, Davy,” he said.
 
“You’re the only one who has ever done good for me.
 
The only one that I have faith in.”

He looked up at the peach tree, enjoying the way the wind blew into his wrinkled face.
 
The newly ripened fruit waved invitingly in the warm breeze.

The old man and his grandson sat on the hill under the tree, the sweet scents moving enticingly through the air.
 
Flowers dotted the landscape around them, the colors swaying back and forth like a beautiful dream.

The old man watched patiently as the rest of his family ambled slowly up the hill, his eyes narrowing.

“I like you too, Grandpa Pete,” Davy said, looking up at the old man.

Pete returned his adoring look and smiled, exposing his white dentures to the summer air.
 
“I want you to remember that, Davy.” He turned back towards his family and there was an odd glint in his eye.
 
“Your Grandpa is leaving soon.
 
Going to join that woman, uh your grandmother, in the afterlife.
 
I’m going to be saying some things to these buffoons that you see walking up the hill, things that aren’t going to be too pleasant.
 
I thought it would be best if you heard it firsthand.
 
I’d rather that you’d have your own memory of what’s going to go on here, rather than some biased second hand information from one of those clowns.”
 
He said the last sentence with a smile as he waved at the group nearing the top of the flower-dotted hill.

The first son to make it up was Steve.
 
Pete actually had to fight to keep his smile glued to his face—a fight he won much to his amazement.
 
He was getting much too impatient for such niceties.
 
Steve was his oldest son, a piece of shit, the very definition of redneck. Steve hadn’t held a job longer than a month in his entire forty-five years.
 
A man who would rather spend his father’s vast amount of wealth than to go out into the world and provide for himself.
 
Steve took off his John Deere cap respectfully and held it to its side, but not before putting a dip of wintergreen chewing tobacco behind his bottom lip.