Chapter 1: Kin
A short story by Stephen Fox
How the fuck did this happen? Rain pours through the bare trees that fill the space between my dead parents’ home, and the bluff overlooking Old Hickory Lake. Giant drops spatter against my head and roll through dirty hair and forehead sweat; the mixture sets my eyes burning. Diluted blood covers my hands. The leaves under my boots may as well be covered in oil – everything’s sliding.
I wrap my fingers hard around my brother’s forearm. The pressure causes his arm to flip out of my hands like a desperate trout. His whole body slides back down onto a sharp shoot of wood now cutting through his right oblique. He shrieks in agony as the rough bark snags and grabs his organs, flesh, and skin. I tumble back. A few saplings crack in two as I fall. I’d pushed my leather satchel to my back – it takes the brunt. Gravity drags me toward the edge. Old Hickory Lake is about fifty feet away – straight down past this last line of trees.
Despite Neil being pinned down by the tree, he still scares the shit out of me. It’s been a hell of a night – there’s no knowing what he might do if I wander within reach. He glares at me. I wrap my hands backward around a couple of nearby branches, and gently pull my weight forward – back to the last stretch of level ground. “I’m gonna fucking strangle you.” Neil growls. His breathing is wet. Blood runs down a fat line of dark red from his chin. Panic blanks his words. My hands are numb. Heartbeats shake through me. I can’t slow my breathing — drowning in adrenaline.
I close my eyes and push hard against a sturdy tree trunk behind me while pulling against two uncertain branches. “Be quiet, or I’ll leave you,” I choke out between gasps and grunts. Hate fills his eyes. He raises his hands in mock surrender. After a few jerks forward, I finally gain footing. Okay – what now?
The garage. Dad kept all kinds of handy shit there. Even amidst the chaos, my dad’s peg board swells a lump in my throat. The tools hang exactly as they always have — obedient, waiting. Even the “Please put tools back where they belong — Keith Leonard” note is undisturbed and yellowing under several strips of old scotch tape.
Rope. Saw. The wood stabbing through him is only about two inches wide, but that’s thick enough. I navigate unlit path and hang my pack on a short branch a few yards from Neil. I shove my right hand deep in the satchel. It feels like I’m trying to find anything in my mom’s purse. Finally, the tip of my index finger finds a steel link on the handcuffs. I drag them out. They pull something else out along the way. I worry a bit as whatever thuds against the mud and vanishes under the blanket of dead leaves.
“What the hell are you doing?” Neil’s expression shifts to panic as he catches a glimpse of the restraints. The first cuff is easy, but I click it a couple of notches too tight. The injury is taking its toll on him; Neil’s slowing down. He tosses a limp swipe at the other bracelet before his head meets the ground with a soggy thud. The second cuff ratchets shut. A square knot on the chain between his wrists should hold. The banister of the deck will help me pulley him up enough to saw through the ground-end of the tree. I remember the first aid training Carrie gave me when the girls were young; leave the branch in the wound. With a hoist, his back is far enough off the dirt for me to cut through the small tree. I start cutting; dammit — I grabbed the wrong saw. No time — saw faster.
Dad built a lot this house. It would’ve lasted a lifetime — or should have — if the dipshit on the other end of this rope had resealed the deck. Twenty feet of spindles and railing pop, crack and rip toward us.
Plans are bullshit.
The banister slams into my chest, pinning me to a nearby tree and jerking the rope from my hands. Gray, bowed wood zips downward and drags across my chest – tearing my flannel shirt and ripping into my skin. I’m rolled between the sliding lumber and the year old maple behind me. The wood twists around the tree, and an inch to the left of Neil’s unconscious body.
Debris tumbles past me, dragging Neil toward the bluff. The tree in my brother’s gut resists, tearing against his flesh. His head jerks up. He howls like I’ve never heard. I scramble to reclaim ground between us — digging into my wet jean pockets to find the handcuff keys. I throw myself the last several feet, and try to insert the key into one of the cuffs. The rope twists Neil’s body nearly ninety degrees; the key pops out of my hands and next to Neil’s head. I grab for it.
Neil bites the hell out of my bare forearm: his teeth dig into me as the tree tugs against him. I can feel his canines dig into muscle. My other hand lands on a slick sandstone rock the size of my hand. I slam it into his forehead. Blood rolls into his eyes and bubbles under a steaming exhale.
I slam the stone harder. I can’t get him to let go. He won’t. Then harder — so hard the impact of the stone shoves his teeth deeper.
Again.
Again.
Again.
(continued in ND Riot #2)
