Sixty-two

John’s unease grew with each step they took towards the second farmhouse.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

I HAVE to!

He thought about running for cover, hiding until the storm dispersed and morning came, but he knew he couldn’t wait.

If anyone’s watching us, they’ll have seen us by now, anyway.

They continued walking up the driveway.

Show Fox you’re not scared of him. March right in there and meet him face to face.

The driveway was long and muddy, and when the lightning flashed above them, John checked the ground for signs of the Jeep’s tyre tracks. And Helen…

Or anything…

Just something to confirm in his mind he was doing the right thing.

But the rain was too heavy and had been falling too long. The driveway was awash with thin streams of water, rushing downward towards the dirt road, and taking the lose dirt and gravel of the driveway with it.

Sherrie stepped closer and hugged his arm as thunder rolled down the valley.

We shouldn’t be here.

You’re risking everything now.

Everything that’s left of your life.

John didn’t even know if he was angry anymore. He didn’t feel as angry as he thought he would. The events of the last few days had exhausted him, and with no food since Saturday, he felt like he was walking on auto-pilot.

He had to find Fox and beat him.

Kill him.

Win the game.

Had to…

But he had no plan, and no energy to see it through. 

This is wrong.

And now he was dragging Sherrie into it all.

Sherrie...

They walked closer to the farmhouse through the sleeting rain.

John’s legs felt heavy and numb from the cold and his wet shirt rubbed against the claw marks on his chest.

He turned to look at Sherrie.

Her hair was clumped into long wet cords down her head, shoulders and back. She looked miserably cold and forlorn.

He wished he could say something to her.

She’s with me through this. She’s by my side supporting me.

Helen never did that.

Don’t think that way.

But it’s true. She’s here for me, no matter what. She’ll stand by me through anything.

That’s what true love is.

And that’s what I have with her.

That’s why I love her more than anything or anyone else.

John turned away and surveyed the fields that were surrounding them. When lightning broke, he peered off into the darkness. There were no signs of Fox’s guards anywhere in the fields.

No sign of anyone.

Maybe that’s the idea, he thought. Maybe Fox has them hidden, waiting just for the right moment for the crossfire…

Just like they did with Helen…

Don’t think like that.

It’s true…

They walked on.

The rain continued to fall.

John couldn’t believe they had walked so far and for so long out in the open without being stopped or seen by someone. Was Fox really that sure of himself?

He won’t be soon.

A few feet closer.

Lightning lit up the sky, a double fork that spread its glow for seconds.

As John looked to the farmhouse, his heart sank and so did his hopes.

The lightning told the story.

The farmhouse was a ruin.

John saw enough of it in those split-seconds to know for sure that Fox wasn’t here.

And that realization cut right through him, sending his mind reeling in the stormy night.

No! It can’t be true!

Thunder clashed and another flash of lightning confirmed what he had seen.

The old wooden farmhouse was almost falling down. Part of the wooden-slated roof was missing, leaving a large hole over half the house. The planks of wood making up the walls were old and dirty. The paint was peeling and some of the wood had come away from the frames, falling to the ground or with one end just hanging in the air. There was no glass in the three windows facing them. There were two doors along the front of the house; the first one was wide open and swinging in the wind and the second was resting on the ground, having fallen from its rusted hinges.

The verandah, or what was left of it, was being propped up with two old weather-beaten pine trunks that must have been cut from the forest for that exact purpose. The iron sheeting on the verandah was loose and flapping in the wind, held on only by a few remaining nails. The gutters that ran across the verandah were twisted and rusted and, in some parts, missing completely. The rain poured right through them, bending them under the force. Weeds and grass had grown up the front steps and through the decking, almost covering it completely and hiding it from view. The brick chimney on the side of the house had fallen over backwards, spilling its bricks into the grass beyond, leaving a huge hole in the farmhouse wall.

No one could live here…

But could they kill here?

Probably.

“Not very inviting,” Sherrie said as they stopped in front of the house.

“I know,” John agreed.

“I don’t think anyone’s home. Do you?”

John shook his head.

“Should we?” Sherrie asked. “You know, should we go in?”

“With the rain like it is, I think it’s our best option.”

She nodded and held out her hand.

He took it and smiled.

She’s by my side. Even now. And she’ll never leave it.

And I’ll never leave her…

Together they climbed the rickety steps to the decking. Each sodden weed-covered wooden board under their feet seemed to creak and moan, and sag under their weight.

“Not the safest house…” Sherrie muttered as she squeezed his hand harder.

They walked up to the front door and pushed it aside.

John peered into the house.

A putrid wet smell overpowered him and he quickly began breathing through his mouth.

“Ick!” Sherrie said from beside him. “What is that stench?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But it’s pretty foul.”

John peered into the darkness, trying to make out anything that he could. Lightning lit up the night sky and the inside of the house.

The house was just as badly weathered inside as it was outside. The walls were stripped almost bare, the drywall soggy and crumbling to the ground. Large gaping holes remained in the wooden frames of the walls, allowing John to see almost all the way through the house.

Rain fell heavily into the rooms where there was no roof, and trickled into rooms that had some of the wooden slats still in place above them.

Thunder rolled, shaking the house as it did so.

John grabbed the doorframe until the vibrations subsided.

The wind blew directly through the house, entering from where the chimney and fireplace used to be. It blew through to the other end of the house where the only wall consisted of two large sheets of metal, nailed together and flapping in the wind. There was enough space at the side of the metal sheets for John to see out into the night and across to the barn.

The rain became heavier, pounding down on the roof in a deafening dance.

Lightning flashed again, filling the house.

And in the middle of the house he saw it.

An old green door.

It was shut.

There’s another room!

Another room behind the green door.

There has to be.

John took a step into the house.

“Be careful,” Sherrie whispered to him.

“I will,” he let go of her hand. “You stay here, okay? This could be dangerous.”

“Okay,” she said in a quiet, scared voice that was drowned out by the rain and thunder.

He looked at the floor to watch where he was stepping. Another flash of lightning showed him that some of the floorboards were missing. There were complete gaps in the floor where floorboards had rotted away, while other areas still had enough flooring to get him to the green door.

Careful, don’t do anything stupid when you’re this close…

Slowly, he zigzagged his way across the floor, stepping cautiously across the gaps and testing each board he stepped on. Some groaned and some sagged, but they all held firm.

He moved from what once was the entranceway through to what he guessed was the lounge room. Each step took him closer to the door. The rain hit him hard as it fell through the hole in the roof over the lounge room.

He braced himself as he stared at the door.

It could open at any time. He had to be ready for anything – or anyone – to come out at him.

But the door remained shut as he walked closer. He could see the paint on the door was peeling, and the old yellow wallpaper that had once brightened the room now sagged and slowly disintegrated. In one section of wallpaper, just to the right of the door, John could see dozens of small pockmarks.

Bullet holes?

Thunder growled above him.

There’s so many!

After what seemed like an eternity, he made it to the door.

Carefully, he reached out to the old rusted doorknob and grasped it. It felt cold and rough to his touch.

“Here goes everything,” he whispered to himself.

He turned the knob and pulled.

The door resisted for a second or two, but then swung open with a loud creak of its hinges.

John only opened it a few inches before he peered inside.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the extra darkness.

The room behind the green door was dry and weatherproofed. The roof was intact and the walls looked solid. The overpowering smell, however, was stronger in this room compared to the others.

No ventilation to clear it away, he thought.

Lightning flashed outside a few seconds later, illuminating the room through two windows on each side.

These windows had glass in them.

He opened the door wider.

The wallpaper was yellow and old, but it was complete here, as was the flooring. There was no space for the rain or wind to get in, no leaking roof or bullet-ridden walls.

John took a step inside the room.

Thunder clapped outside, but it sounded muffled from where he was standing.

The room looked like a normal room in any house. It was a bit damp and the strange smell was nauseating, but it could’ve passed for any room in an old farmhouse.

Weird…

Lightning flashed through the windows again and the darkest corner was illuminated for only moments.

He saw the mattress for the first time.

And the clothes piled on it.

He turned, walked over to the corner and knelt down.

It was a small double mattress, covered with a moth-eaten blanket and the small pile of clothes.

He grabbed the clothes and held them in his hands.

It was too dark to make out exactly what he was looking at. So he knelt in the night, waiting for the next flash of lightning to strike.

Soon they came.

He was ready for the flash, and when it came he made good use of it.

He was holding in one hand a suit top and a blouse, and in the other, a skirt and bra.

Leaning forward, he smelled the bra.

My God!

There was no doubt about it. It was Helen’s smell. It was Helen’s bra!

These are Helen’s clothes!

Nooo, please no!

Zoe was right!

Oh God, oh GodohGod!

It happened here, right here, just as she said it did!

Thunder rolled through the valley outside.

The clothes fell from his hands as he stared down at the mattress, his mind reeling as all the facts fell into place.

Everything Zoe said was true.

It’s all true!

His mind was spinning in the darkness. He staggered to his feet. Lightning struck again, flooding the mattress with light. It was a dingy, flat mattress laying on the dirty floor. Its stuffing was falling out in places and there were stains all over it.

Stains John didn’t want to think about.

Thunder echoed around him.

Oh, Helen. I’m so sorry.

Oh God!

No, it can’t be true! It can’t happen like this!

You fucking bastard, Fox. I’ll hunt you down, you fuck, no matter how long it takes!

He kicked hard at the mattress.

Kicked again.

And heard the metal scrape loudly in the night.

Huh?

He bent down over the mattress and felt around it carefully.

His heartbeat was as loud as the rain hammering on the roof.

He didn’t want to run his hands through the moth-eaten blanket. But he was sure he heard something clank against the wall.

He could find nothing on top of the blanket, but he felt a hard shape underneath it.

In the dark, he pulled the blanket back and ran his hands over the mattress itself. It was cold and damp and sticky.

The chill of fear spread up his spine.

Eventually his hands came across the cold hard metal. He picked it up and felt its shape in the dark. He didn’t need any lightning to tell him what it was.

Some kind of shovel? A small shovel or spade?

I don’t get it…

Lightning flashed.

Illuminated the mattress and his hands.

And the red stain that was on both.

Reflecting the streak of lightning, the blood gleamed in the night.

All over the mattress.

All over his hands.

John let out a yelp and staggered backwards, pushing himself away from the mattress and the dark corner.

The shovel flew from his grasp as he pushed back.

Blood! Oh God, no!

The shovel clattered loudly to the floor.

“John?”

It didn’t register at first. His eyes were still glued to the bloody mattress in the dark corner.

Thunder surrounded him.

So much blood, oh my god, somuchblood!

“JOHN!”

He heard Sherrie’s voice then, but he couldn’t call out. He had no time. Words wouldn’t form in his mouth.

He heard the running footsteps.

He heard the crash.

And he heard Sherrie scream.