Silas: A Supernatural Thriller (28 page)

When the last of his change came over him, Silas curled up and huffed for breath. His body, now that of a human child, was covered with a slick sheen of sweat. He lifted his head and stared at me with two bluish-brown eyes that looked so much like they did when he was a dog. His hand went up and tousled his hair. He gave of the impression of perplexity as he puffed air out of his cheeks. It was almost as if he was trying to figure out how his body worked.

Finally he rose to his feet, waddled over to me, and grabbed the cuff of my tattered Paul Nicely jeans. Even though I should’ve been petrified of the events going on in the clearing above us, I could only stare at him in wonder.

It turns out I hadn’t dreamed about the previous night, after all. I couldn’t quite figure out if that was a good thing or not.

42

Boy Silas wrapped his hand around mine. His skin was hot. The terrified cry of a woman then echoed all around us, a shriek of horror so complete that it almost sounded contrived. Boy Silas reacted to the noise by leaping into my arms and covering his ears. I held him tight, rocked him, and whispered, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” into his ear.

The female voice cried out again, forcing Boy Silas to bury his face in my neck. I contemplated turning around and getting the hell out of Dodge, but my curiosity won out.

I kissed Boy Silas on the forehead, placed his naked, eight-year-old ass down on a pile of leaves, and told him to stay put. Then I crawled away, heading up the hill once again. I turned around once and saw his eyes, glowing in the bright darkness, pleading. I put a finger to my lips, turned away, and kept on crawling.

When I reached my destination I sat up on my knees and parted the branches. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A beautiful young woman with hair long, ratty, and blonde, sat in the middle of the clearing, the rope tied around her neck. Her breasts heaved with every breath and her lower jaw quivered. She looked like a woman in peak physical condition, yet no matter how hard she struggled she couldn’t get the rope loose. Her hands were cut from the effort, dripping blood over her milky-white flesh.

She looked at her captors and pleaded with them in an incomprehensible language. Big Guy then appeared from the throng. He strutted, looking pleased with himself, his grin revealing sharpened upper teeth that looked like they were made of wood. He paced around the captive woman, hunched over, every so often faking toward her and growling. Sometimes he’d stop and grab the two halves of his split penis, yanking them in opposite directions. The woman recoiled. He was playing with her, mocking her, terrorizing her.

I wanted to help her but knew there was nothing I could do. So I kept on watching, even when Boy Silas’s human whimpers drew close to me. He touched my hand. I wrapped my fingers around his and held them tight.

Big Guy stepped forward and thrust his huge fist into the crying girl’s chest. I winced as I heard the crack of snapping bone. The girl doubled over and vomited. Big Guy bent over and scooped a handful of sludge from off the ground. My stomach wobbled when he snatched the girl by her hair with his other hand and then forced his sodden fingers into her mouth. She gagged, trying to get away. It looked to me like she was biting his knuckles, but Big Guy acted like he didn’t feel it. He laughed instead.

Finally the sick bastard relented. He pulled his digits from the girl’s mouth, and she promptly vomited again, all over her chest this time. I shut my lips and covered them with my hand, lest I suffer the same fate as she.

Why?
my mind begged with its bleeding-heart voice.
Why is this happening? Why are they so horribly cruel?
I squeezed Silas’s hand even tighter, more to keep myself sane than for any other reason.

In the clearing, three of Big Guy’s followers approached him. Draped across their six outstretched hands was a broadsword. By the way they struggled to hold it, I guessed the thing weighed at least two hundred pounds, yet when Big Guy grabbed the wire-spun handle he was able to lift it with what looked like minimal effort. His muscles rippled and those who’d brought him the weapon scurried back to the pack. He lifted the sword to the heavens and I bit my tongue. The coppery tang of blood seeped down my throat.

The captive girl with the rope around her throat cowered. Strands of sludge-inculcated spit hung from her lips. Big Guy stomped one gigantic foot and then planted the business end of the sword in the ground, much as he had with the stake. He proceeded to bark at the girl. It was incoherent blather, but by the expression on his face I guessed he was saying,
look at me!
The girl wouldn’t comply, though. Her eyes, shimmering in the moonlight, shifted this way and that, but wouldn’t give her subjugator the satisfaction of a glance.

Big Guy barked at her again, and once more the girl ignored him. He barked. She ignored. The game seemed to go on and on until finally the huge, naked, and tattooed sub-human screamed at the moon and swung his club-like foot into the girl’s face. Her head snapped back and she let out a surprised yelp. She rolled around in pain for a moment and then sat up. Her perfect, delicate nose had been flattened. Blood, thick and gummy, flowed over her chin, washing away whatever grime had been left there from the bastard’s fingers. Her eyes watered and she began to cry. It was the most helpless sound I’d ever heard. I felt for her, and again wished I could do something.

Big Guy snickered, wrapped both hands around the handle of his six-foot-long sword, and tore it from the ground. It came up with an audible whoosh, clipping the girl’s forearm in the process. Her wrist split open and blood gushed out, drenching Big Guy’s feet. She screeched at the top of her lungs. Big Guy, in turn, lifted the sword above his head like an executioner.

He brought the sword down with near-blinding speed. It sliced right through the girl’s damaged wrist, which she’d brought up in a futile attempt to protect herself, severing it completely. Then the blade ripped through her scalp, splitting her hairline in two. It creased her forehead, sinking down and down to the sound of cracking plaster. Her remaining hand made a final, mindless attempt at escape, grabbing the sword’s shearing edge while the rest of her body shuddered. The fingers were amputated clean at the knuckles. Her dying eyes stared vacantly from either side of the gleaming blade.

I knew in that moment I should’ve been sick, but there was something about the absolute horror of what I saw, the unbelievable graphicness, that froze my insides. For that, I was thankful.

Big Guy stared down at the dead girl. I couldn’t see his face as his back was to me, but I imagined the grin of a child molester on his face. I thought of Bridget Cormier and Jacqueline Talbot, which eventually brought up Nick Goodman. Hatred poured through my veins, but I couldn’t feed it without doing something suicidal.

I was so transfixed on both my thoughts and the scene in the clearing that I hadn’t been paying attention to Boy Silas. He was now looking through the gap in the trees along with me, his hand on my knee, his mouth quaking. He gawked at the dead girl with the sword sticking out of her head and started crying when Big Guy ripped the blade from the skull with a single shrug of his shoulders. The body toppled over. Big Guy then flexed his neck, grunted, and dropped to all fours. The Mercedes hood ornament hanging from his lower lip rested on her stomach. With a final growl, he buried his teeth into the soft skin just above her navel. I finally closed my eyes, but I could hear a sick chorus tearing flesh and slurping. A violent cheer erupted in the clearing, followed by the uneven march of eager feet.

Just as the feet began to march, I heard a war-cry. It was loud, angry as hell, and much too close. I peeked through my squinting eyelids and saw the feasting sub-humans had turned in our direction. Big Guy stood up and stared right at me.

The war-cry sounded again and I glanced to my left. Boy Silas, standing upright with his teeth bared and neck muscles straining, shook his clenched fists at the mob. He took a step forward, menacing despite his diminutive size. I finally broke out of my stupor and jumped to my feet, grabbing him around the waist and lifting him up. The mob stared at us, looking surprised, but I knew that wouldn’t last, so I spun around and sprinted down the hill and into the woods as fast as I could. Boy Silas fought against me every step of the way, thrashing in my arms as if he wanted to fight. I did my best to keep his small yet painful fists at bay, the whole while hoping beyond hope that I wouldn’t trip on the underbrush. My hip roared at me and the rucksack bounced against my back as I ran, doubling my pain.

From behind me, I heard the thunderous roar of a hundred feet.

The crazy bastards were after us, and they sounded
fast.

43

I dashed through the maze of trees as fast as my exhausted and hurt legs could carry me. Darkness spread the deeper into the jungle we went, making every twist and turn a perilous one. The sound of our pursuers stayed a good distance behind, but they were still much too close. I felt weary, my chest was on fire, and both Silas’s and the pack’s inconsistent weight made me lose my balance more than once. As for Silas, his steaming breath soaked my already sweat-covered neck. He continued to kick and paw at me, but I resisted the urge to put him down. I knew if I did that the first thing he’d do is turn tail and attack those who’d defiled the wolf-girl. They’d rip him apart. So I dealt with the pain as best I could. I had no choice.

This…still…sucks…though
, I thought. Even my inner monologue was panting.

I ignored the pain and pushed my body to move faster. Soon the rumpus following behind us died down, as if our pursuers suddenly decided to up and quit. I’d only been running for five minutes, tops, and it seemed strange that they’d give up so soon, especially after witnessing how brutal they were. Not that I was complaining, mind you.

I kept running for another short span of time, until my legs felt like jelly. At least Silas had ceased thrashing about by then. He still seemed anxious, with heavy breathing and a rapid heart rate, but he resigned himself to the constriction of my arms around him. Seeing him in this way made me wonder if he held onto his habit of short-term memory loss, even in human form. I then considered my own childhood – birthday parties at bowling alleys, days walking along the stream behind my parents’ house, playing football with friends in the field down the street. I guess
my
attention span really wasn’t that much different than his, be him child or dog. This lack of concentration was nothing but a sign of innocence and curiosity, where the next bigger and better thing catches the eye and pulls you in. I looked at him as he nuzzled in my arms and realized the difference; whereas I, as an adult, had been constricted by the tunnel vision of grief and fear associated with
growing up
, he’d likely keep that wonderful, naïve purity for the length of his short life.

Upon thinking that, I wished he would turn back into his normal self. The last thing I wanted was to see my untainted boy’s spirit stained.

A little farther into the jungle I slowed down and started counting my steps. When I reached one hundred I slowed to a brisk walk. Then I counted to one hundred again and stopped. I placed Silas on the ground, leaned against a tree, and breathed through my nose. Not convinced of safety, I continued to listen for signs of approaching danger, but only the constant chirp of insects greeted me. I relaxed, rolling my shoulders and wiping sweat from my brow.

I slid down the tree until my butt hit the wet ground. The rucksack caught the bark and rode up, tearing the armpit of my shirt in the process. I was so tired I didn’t care. The early evening air felt refreshingly cool against the bare skin the tear exposed, which helped. I thought of Wendy, of how she’d always go on a diatribe about how much she loved the cool breezes whenever one kicked up during our summer trips to Old Lyme Beach. “I love you, Wendy,” I whispered, trying to transmit my thoughts across space and time. I’d never really believed in psychic powers, astral projection, or any of that other mumbo jumbo, but given the situation I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

Silas crept up to me and sprawled across my lap. I twirled my fingers through his thick black hair. He gazed up at me, those hazel eyes glinting in the sparse moonlight that shone through the canopy. The light reflected off his irises, making them look as blue as they were when he was a puppy…only now they resided in the eye sockets of a human face. Once more I was amazed. Once more I couldn’t help but think I was dreaming.