The motorhome grew smaller down the dirt road, valleyed between tall green pines. They’d left me behind bruised and bloodied, wet and muddy. My truck worse for wear, with a dented rear hugging a tree. Wheels sunken into wet ground.
My wallet was gone, my driver’s license with it. More importantly, my personal information was in the hands of bloodthirsty cannibals. Megan, my girlfriend, was back home. I needed to warn her. I needed to call the police. But to do that, I needed cell signal, which I did not have.
What I did have was another gun.
They’d taken my Smith-Wesson MP40, probably assuming that was all I had. You don’t go looking for cannibals with only one gun.
Under my seat was a Glock41. Another pistol. I suppose I should’ve used it during my tussle with that fucker called ‘Clem’ when I had the chance, but adrenaline got the best of me.
I climbed behind the driver seat and spun the tires, kicking up mud. They struggled a bit, but eventually got a grip and pulled me back onto the road. Perks of four-wheel-drive.
The motorhome was a distant speck at this point. My options were to either hurry back in search of cell signal then home to Megan or take off after the motorhome and stop them fuckers before it was too late.
They had a way of disappearing despite the odds. I decided I wasn’t going to let that happen again.
I put the pedal to the floor and roared down the dirt road after them. Bumper scraping behind. The motorhome was growing ever closer. I guess they heard me coming, or saw me, because they slowed down. Their taillights didn’t work, so I couldn’t tell at first, but once it became apparent that they were stopping, I just kept going. Engine yelling.
I knew that fat mama of theirs was one with the back of that motorhome, which was clear enough by the way it dipped at the rear. She probably hadn’t moved from that spot in years. Ramming the back at about sixty or so would fuck her up pretty good, I reckoned. The question was, how would I accomplish that without hurting myself in the process? I didn’t want to knock myself out and then become a sitting target. Another meal for the cannibals. Served up and ready to be eaten.
Sometimes when things are happening quick, you think even quicker. Sometimes you get flustered. It’s a matter of being present. Focused on the moment at hand and letting your instincts take over. You’d be surprised how information you’ve subconsciously picked up over the years comes into play in these do-or-die moments.
Before all this, if you would’ve asked me how to prepare for an imminent collision, I would’ve struggled to answer. But, somehow I just knew. When you get out of your own way, what’s obvious becomes, well… obvious.
Obviously there’s a seatbelt for a reason. I made sure it was fastened across my lap and chest. There’s a headrest for a reason, too. That’s so your head doesn’t snap back. I pressed the back of my head firmly against it. An airbag will burst out of the steering wheel upon impact. If I want it to cushion me appropriately, I need to be sitting up straight. If I slouch or slump, my face is going to take the brunt of it. With my posture straight, my head flat against the headrest, my seatbelt on, I firmly gripped the steering wheel. I kept my wrists flat and my muscles tight so as to keep me pressed back into the seat.
Then I prayed that the airbag would deploy.
I didn’t want the gun falling somewhere I couldn’t reach, so I put it in the center console. Took my foot off the gas last second. And braced.
They hadn’t already gotten out of the motorhome when I collided with it. But I hoped they were in the process of walking to the door, because the rear caved in like a crumpled soda can, and the motorhome lunged forward and off to the side where it collided with a tree. They would’ve been tossed all around that thing.
My truck on the other hand, came to a sudden, violent halt. My airbag deployed immediately and struck me like a linebacker. The air left my lungs, and my bones felt rattled.
I was alive, that was my first thought. My second was that I was dying.
The cab was filled with white dust, my horn was blaring, and one of my windshield wipers was still going.
Suddenly, I could breathe again. And move. I quickly reached into the center console and pulled out the pistol, unbuckled my seatbelt, and fell out the driver-side door. I stumbled back to my feet, my legs like jelly. My ribs aching. My chest still echoing the impact from the airbag.
Nobody had left the motorhome yet, that I could see. White smoke was drifting from the front.
I limped over to the right side and over to the cabin door. There was the thumping of someone moving and the motorhome rocked subtly side to side.
I swallowed a breath and yanked the door open, pointing the gun at the interior. The rancid odor poured out like noxious gas. A man laid slumped over and unconscious, head bleeding. Arms broken. He was chained to the grimy, moldy, bloodstained wall.
A leg dangled limply by the door. Small. Childlike. I quickly glanced inside and saw a little girl slumped over, chained to the wall, as well. Unconscious, but breathing.
I stepped further inside and saw Clem, petting his mama, sobbing. “Wake up, Mama,” he said. “Wake up.”
I didn’t see the other brothers. I glanced up front, gun still aimed at Clem, and noticed the driver side door was now open.
“Hey, Clem,” I whispered. “Clem.”
He turned around and I fired a round into his abdomen. His eyes widened and he dove toward the wall, behind a pile of garbage. I chased him with two more rounds that ended up burrowing into Mama, who looked like a deformed puddle of bloodied flesh at that moment. Likely already dead.
I took another step into the motorhome, and saw the pink of Clem’s naked back peeking above the trash. I took aim and just as I was about to pull the trigger, I was yanked by my shirt and out of the motorhome, flat onto the wet grass. Samuel climbed on top of me and pinned my arms with his knees.
“You done it now, boy!” He shouted and slammed his fist against my jaw. I squirmed and kicked and he struck me again. He wrapped his right hand around my neck and squeezed, then pulled the pistol from my grip with his other hand, and shattered my nose with it.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
I tightened my lips and clenched my jaw, but my nose was broken. I could only hold my breath for so long.
“OPEN YOUR MOUTH!”
He took his hand off of my throat and dug his filthy fingers into my mouth and pried it open, then before I could bite down, shoved the barrel of the gun between my teeth.
Samuel put his face close to mine and stared at me with his dark, demonic eyes. Black holes that devour. Drain light and color, swallows them whole. I could feel him eating my soul.
“After this,” he calmly said, “I’m gon’ go to your house. I’m gon’ find those you love. And I’m gon’ make ‘em suffer. And you just gonna lie here, dead and helpless.”
I squirmed and kicked and let out a desperate, muffled yell. I saw the pink of Billy’s pajama pants in my periphery. “Samuel,” he said.
Samuel was still glaring at me.
“Samuel.”
He turned and looked at Billy, then there was a sudden bang, and Samuel’s head whipped back. His body slumped to the ground. He landed facing me, eyes open, staring vacantly. Blood draining from his forehead. Mouth gulping like a fish. After a moment, his mouth stopped moving. The blood continued to puddle around his face onto the wet grass.
I looked up and saw Billy standing over me, my Smith-Wesson in his hand.
“You gonna shoot me?” I asked.
“No. But you need to get outta ‘ere before I change my mind.”
I sat up. Looked at my Glock lying in the grass. “Can I go get the little girl?”
Billy shook his head. “You killed ‘er daddy, ya know? Rammin’ into us like you did.”
I looked back at the ground. “What’re you going to do with her?”
“I’m gon’ be ‘er daddy now.”
I looked back at Billy. The pink women’s pajama pants he was wearing. They probably belonged to the girl’s mom.
“Billy?” Clem was standing at the motorhome door, hand over his bleeding abdomen. “What’d you do?”
Billy raised the pistol at his brother. “I’ve had enough of y’all tellin’ me what to do.”
Clem raised his hands. “Alright now, Billy… don’t—”
Billy pulled the trigger and fired multiple shots into Clem. I ducked to the ground, quickly grabbed the Glock from the grass, and put three rounds into Billy. He jolted back and fell. I quickly crawled over to him. He had two in the chest and one in the neck. He stared at me, surprised. Betrayed. He opened his mouth to say something, and I finished him off with another to the head.
I grabbed the Smith-Wesson, and carried both guns as I stumbled over to Clem, who was laid out in the motorhome doorway. Somehow still breathing. He looked at me and smiled, his mouth full of rotten teeth. “I knew we shoulda killed ya when we had the chance.”
“Where’s your other brother?”
Clem looked at me a moment and asked, “who ya talkin’ about?”
“There were four of you the first time I’d seen you.”
“Oh,” he chuckled. “Joshua. He’s dead. Mama ate his body.”
I glanced into the motorhome, disgusted. Her own son. I put a final round into Clem’s head and dragged him out of the doorway.
The little girl was awake. Staring at her father, who lay limp opposite her. His face was blue. Pink-fluid dripped out of his nose. He wasn’t breathing.
“Where’s the key?” I asked her. She didn’t respond.
I went back out to my truck. Smoke rising from the engine. Horn still blaring. From the toolbox in the back, I grabbed a pair of bolt cutters. Limped back to the motorhome and cut the girl loose. Her arms were broken, probably from being jerked around with them tied behind her during the collision.
I wish I’d known she was inside.
I picked her up and carried her for several miles until I found cell signal again. She never spoke. Eventually the police and ambulance and fire engine showed up. They put us in the ambulance and transported us to the hospital.
It rained the entire time.