Marilyn (18 page)

FIFTY-EIGHT

Jack ploughed through the undergrowth as fast as his young, tired legs would carry him. O'Sullivan had not asked him to alter his course, they were both as lost as each other. There didn't seem to be a clear path leading back to the track, the trees did not allow it. Jack could have ducked, dived and crawled through the spaces between the throngs of trees, he was definitely small enough but there was no point running, no point separating himself from O'Sullivan, not here, not just yet. He followed the tree line, stepping over uprooted trunks, rocks, and misplaced branches, almost losing his shoes to the hungry bogs on a few occasions. He fought with the low–hanging, whip-like twigs that angrily snapped at his face, hitting out at them with his forearms as he pressed forward. As much as he tried to insist that it wasn't there, he couldn't shake the ache in his thighs, and the burning fire that was now his calves. Every now and again Jack could hear O'Sullivan grunt and mumble behind him. He tried to listen to what the monster was slurring, but the words blew away with the wind before they reached his ears.

**

O'Sullivan caught glimpses of the sky in between watching where his feet went, it was black. With no idea where he was going or how he was getting there, he raged on.

**

The rain had stopped. A thin, low fog wriggled its way in through the brambles, and then the bushes and trees, passing across the tops of their shoes, blanketing the woodland with its light, sinister touch. The path opened up, widening on both sides, allowing both Jack and O'Sullivan to make a tight left in the direction of the off road track, but not enough to walk side by side.

'Turn here, boy.'

Jack complied with his orders and slipped left, nudging away bare branches with his shoulders.

    'Speed up, come on, faster. This isn't a fucking holiday camp.'

Jack felt the gun in his back, it was a familiar feeling now, one he would never be able to shake, but the fear was still there, as real and as strong as ever. He tried his best to sound as genuine and apologetic as possible.

'I'm going as fast as I can, I'm sorry.'

'Well, it isn't fucking good enough.'

Jack took longer strides wherever he could. He didn't know how much farther he could go on, his tank was empty and he was running on the fumes of sheer determination, his little legs wobbling from the caustic stretch.

The ground was getting soggier the further they went, and he didn't want to fall face first into the starving mud that was begging to eat him up, that would most definitely warrant another clip.

FIFTY-NINE

R.J. Russell, Marilyn and Elwood Bailey canvassed the woods like tracking dogs chasing a scent, their heads to the ground and their ears perked. It was simple, follow the footprints.

They refused to let their momentum dip, keeping a steady rhythm to their movements and speed. Just slightly off from a soft jog, enduring the whipping and smacking of the branches and the shin-high attacks from the stumps and stones. They were closing the gap.

Marilyn side-stepped a hump in the ground, barely making it by an inch. Her heavy coat made it that little bit harder to move, an unwanted hindrance, not allowing her arms to even out the balance that she so very much needed,  She could feel the warm sweat rolling down her chest in thin beads onto her stomach, and then being washed away by the fabric of her clothing. Her hands were turning blue, and her knuckles were stiff. She repeatedly made fists, clenching and unclenching, trying to get the blood pumping through them as she narrowly avoided obstacle after obstacle on a chessboard maze filled with a million mounds and holes. Her feet made new prints, perfect dents covering the old ones made by Jack and the monster, erasing any signs that they had even ever been there, their last traces vanishing forever.

Elwood had Molly resting over his shoulder, he didn't want any accidents or misfires. The terrain was taking its toll on his body, his sixty-year-old joints were not holding up as well as he had hoped, he was certainly no spring chicken any more. He felt every lump and bump in each crevice of his being. They sent sharp shooting pains through his feet, ankles and knees, weakening him with each step he took.

R.J. stopped where the path opened up, looking at the prints that led off to the left, removing the twigs and leaves from his view.

'Quick, this way, they broke left. We've got to be getting close now.'

R.J. and Marilyn pushed forward through dense barriers of branches covering their faces with a raised, untrained boxing guard.

     'I don't think I can go on, I need a minute. You two keep going, don't wait up for me,' panted Elwood, bending down on to one knee, a twinge possessing his lips.

Marilyn turned to face Elwood, a sadness in her eyes but desperation dancing a dangerous jig all over her face.

'What's the matter, Elwood, are you OK?'

'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.' He slid his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. 'Just a little out of breath, that's all. I'm not as fit as I used to be. Don't you two stop on my account,' he spluttered. 'Keep going. Don't waste any more time. You make sure Jack gets back safe, Sheriff, you hear?’

R.J. walked up behind Marilyn and placed a sticky palm on the shoulder of her coat, looking down at Elwood.

'You sure you're going to be OK, old timer?'

Elwood tutted and waved a shaky hand through the air as if brushing away a circle of annoying flies, catching his fingers on the soggy leaves.

'Of course, will you two stop worrying about me and get a move on? I'll catch up with you when I can. Now, come on, get going, hurry.'

Marilyn walked back and crouched to Elwood's level, taking his icy face in her chilly hands.

'Thank you, Elwood. Thank you for everything.'

She pulled his face in close to hers and kissed him on the forehead, his glasses steamed up from the passing of her warm breath, but she made sure they did not slip.

'I mean it,' she continued. 'You're a wonderful man and I don't know what I would have done without all of your help.'

Elwood smiled, feeling proud, restraining the emotional torrent that was aching to unleash itself from both of his eyes.

'You're welcome. Don't mention it.' He coughed, gripping at his chest. 'Now go, both of you. Jack needs you.'

They had a moment of silence together before moving on, R.J. gave the orders.

'Let's go, Marilyn.'

Neither looked back for a second glance as they left Elwood and Molly alone.

**

Elwood watched as the last shadows of his companions disappeared through the trees and out of sight. He slumped himself against the foot of a root, and threw Molly over his lap, feeling the metallic chill soak through his trousers and into his skin. He planted his head against the wet bark and shut his eyes, fighting with the cold and sleepiness, but winning neither. The twinge wasn't going anywhere.

SIXTY

The world was starting to fill up now, blinking slivers of light dawdled on the outskirts of the once seemingly impenetrable woodland fortress, showing itself only when the leaves gave it permission to pass through. It was coming from the houses and street lights at the back end of town.

They kept all of their attention glued to the path ahead of them, not letting it stray for a second.

They took on a banking littered with dead sticks, crumpled leaves, and fallen timber, both having to bend onto all fours to keep their balance and make it to the top. It wasn't steep but the sliding mud made it tough, like walking the wrong way up an escalator. Jack squeezed his fingers into the dirt, scraping his fingernails on the grit and gravel, trying to get as much grip as he could to pull himself up. The mud squelched through the gaps in his baby-sized hands and he fell flat onto his stomach, sliding backwards down the heap. He arched his head onto the top of his back, keeping his face from hitting the ground. He scrambled his arms and legs, like a hamster in a wheel, clutching at whatever he could find, which was very little.

Jack slammed the tips of his shoes down and dug his toes into the soil until he stopped, but there was no time to rest.

'What the fuck are you playing at, boy?' screamed O'Sullivan. 'Get up. I don't have time for your games.'

Jack used the remainder of his fumes to heave himself to the top of the bank. He collapsed on his chest for a second's breath, until O'Sullivan reached the peak.

O'Sullivan stood behind him, reached over, and gripped his jumper with one arm, pulling him to his feet and spinning him around. He pointed the gun at Jack's shoulder this time, prodding it at the fleshy tissue between the chest and arm. O'Sullivan's face went cherry red as he strained and snarled in disgruntlement. 'Come on, what's the matter with you?' he wailed, looking around, searching. 'All you've got to do is pull the fucking trigger. Do it. Pull the trigger. Come on.'

O'Sullivan's voice softened.

'Go on, kid. Keep walking.'

Jack turned back around and continued walking. He tilted his head to the left and then the right, disguising his search for a way out with a cool and subtle neck click. He noticed an easier path they could have taken instead of scaling the banking, a tiny trail that went around rather than uphill. He only really had two options, run straight ahead, or turn and run back the way he came, and hope for the best. Neither were all that appealing.

The grumbles and mumbles returned from behind him. They were getting louder, sounding more agitated than the last, some soft, others enraged, desperate, messy.

They walked for two minutes in peace and quiet, only hearing the squawks and flutters of nearby birds and the hums of hiding insects. Jack had deliberately slowed their pace to suit his fatigue, it went unnoticed by O'Sullivan, who continued to babble a few steps behind.

The path was wide enough now for them to walk side by side, but they stuck to the single file formation. Jack kicked and scuffed at the mud, testing his getaway. It was harder now, drier, this part of the woods had hardly been touched by the majority of the storm. The shelter above them was vast, almost endless. Thousands of draping, dangling, and swinging branches tangled themselves together in a loving clinch to form the perfect umbrella.

O'Sullivan, now snarling to himself, dislocated, lodged his foot beneath a low wave of a loose root and tumbled to his knees, his chest striking the spongy floor with a hollow wallop, crushing his ribs, sucking all the breath from his body like a deflating balloon. His head followed straight after, catching the corner of a cracked rock hidden beneath the dirt, his eyes seeing only a seething white.

The monster bled once more.

O'Sullivan's gun was flung from his hand, it drifted across the mud just out of arm's reach, stopping and sinking gradually into an unfortunate soggy patch until the handle and trigger were both immersed.

Jack ran, holding his breath at first, hopping holes, skipping roots and dodging debris. The temptation to slow his run and look behind him was a strong one, but he fought it. With his slender frame and small stature he had the advantage for the first time. There was no stopping him now.

**

Before O'Sullivan could pick his head from the dirt, Jack was out of sight. Everything was falling apart, crumbling down like a house of cards around him. He screamed a wicked, ear-splitting scream into the air until his lungs could carry on no more, and then he did it again. His throat was raw, his tonsils tainted with the bloodless scars of his bellows.

'Come back you, fuck. Come back here, you son of a bitch. I know you can hear me. When I catch you, you are fucking dead. Do you hear me, boy? There's nowhere for you to run, there's nowhere for you to hide. I'm coming for you, boy. I'm coming for you.'

He roared another hateful gust, spewing his demonic sounds for all to hear, as he vilely wormed himself to his feet.

SIXTY-ONE

They didn't stop to ask one another if they had heard the screams, it was not needed, a glance was all it took. Instead they ran, bounding through the woods, chasing the last of the dying echoes that seemed to be all around them, dripping from the leaves. They couldn't control their breathing, it came out in short, hard and heavy bursts, burning their chests and throats. For once, pain was a useful enemy, pushing them, driving them further than they thought they could go.
R.J. went as fast as his legs would permit, looking back every few yards to find Marilyn hot on his heels.

The oncoming wind blew streams of Marilyn's fresh tears from her eyes, across her face, to the lobes of her ears and down the sides and back of her neck. The coat didn't bother her any more, she didn't even notice it was there. It became her silent protector against slashes and bruises as she barged her way through chinks in the forest's armour, carefully dodging the dips and sags in the ground.

     They came to a banking and stopped. They saw the prints from two pairs of both hands and feet leading to the top.

'Why have we stopped, Sheriff?' she spluttered.

R.J. didn't answer straight away, he scanned the woods with one hand on the butt of his gun, ready to draw.

'There's got to be an easier way around.' He rubbed his thumb over the butt, urging his eyes and brain to work in unison. 'Come on, this way.'

R.J. sniffed out a winding pathway that slipped around the side of the banking.

They meandered their way around the dainty but dangerous path, digging their heels in and pulling themselves along with the help of overgrown branches that seemed to be perfectly placed. For the first time, there were no footprints to follow.

They reached the top and stopped for a breather, bending down with their hands on their knees, their chests tight and sore. Marilyn dug her hand into her pocket and held Jack's chain without taking it out.

'Come on, baby, where are you, Jack? Talk to me.'

They were back on track once more with a trail to follow. The spacing of the footprints had shortened, which only meant one thing.

'Look, Marilyn. They're slowing down, we've got to be close now. Keep the noise to a minimom, OK? We don't want to let them know we're coming. We have the element of surprise on our side, so let's use it.'

R.J. drew his gun, holding it at shoulder height as he once again led the way.

**

O'Sullivan held his pistol in his hands, cleaning the gunk from the butt and trigger with a harsh brushing motion. He thought about firing a few shots off into the trees, hoping to hit Jack, but he had a limited supply of bullets and decided against it. He rubbed at his head, feeling the cut on the side of his face and the blood that ran into his eye. He wiped that away, too, using the same technique. The pain in his shoulder where he'd been shot was really hurting now, he poked at it with two fingers and recoiled with a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth. He was starting to slow down in every aspect. He couldn't move as fast, think as fast or act as fast as he'd like to, everything was starting to fuzz, inside and outside of his head like a television searching for signal.

In fact, Walter needed a breather, but O'Sullivan couldn't allow that, he had to move, had to catch Jack, there was no time to continue the silent in-house debate, but before he knew it, O'Sullivan caught himself walking to seek comfort from a nearby tree, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was furious at himself, at Walter. What the fuck was he doing? There was no time for any of this shit. He fought against every step that his body took, but failed. He sat down holding his shoulder, throwing his gun into lap. He let his head fall back against the stump of the tree, shutting his eyes for a second, a well-deserved break.

Walter O'Sullivan jerked forward, expeditiously, hearing the splintering of twigs and the trampling of leaves, it was getting closer, louder.

Walter rolled sidewards off his resting post, and jumped to his feet. He crept off the path and into the bushes, drowning himself from view amongst the dripping wet foliage. Alert and on edge, O'Sullivan waited, aiming his gun through the frond, resting the tip on a conveniently placed crook.

'Come on, you fuckers. Think you can sneak up on me, huh? Well, you better be willing to die.'
His hand didn't shake, not reacting to the cold or the anticipation that antagonised him, it was as steady and ready as ever.

     He heard crunch after crunch of the dead crispy leaves.

O'Sullivan gripped his revolver with both hands, aiming. He followed R.J. and Marilyn, keeping them lined up in the sights. He closed one eye, the weakest, took in a draw- out breath and held it.

He fired. Once.

O'Sullivan, weakening and weary, had not fully prepared himself for the recoil from the gun and his arms were thrown back towards his face, blocking his view, he couldn't tell if he had hit anything with his shot.

**

The blast boomed through the forest, sending birds swirling off in every direction high above them, squawking in hysteria. The bullet whizzed through the leafy, net-like window ahead of O'Sullivan, tearing the leaves from the branches and embedding itself in the trunk of a senescent tree. The torn up chunks of bark and leaf cascaded to the ground with a serene ripple.

Marilyn let out a high-pitched scream as she chucked herself at the ground, her head tucked into the crooks of her elbows, protecting her face. She was unhurt.

R.J. reacted just as quickly, throwing himself down and rolling to a small bit of cover behind a patch of shrubbery. He searched the area, his eyes flitting left, right and straight ahead.

'Marilyn, are you hurt?' he called out.

She lifted her head from her elbows, carefully trying not to reveal too much of herself as a target.

'No. No, I don't think so. Are you?'

'No, I'm OK. Did you see anything, anyone?’

She looked across at R.J. and shook her head.

‘Me neither; look, Marilyn, on three, I want to you quietly roll as fast as you can to where I am, can you do that? We need to get to some proper cover.'
Marilyn wanted to move, but she felt as if she was paralysed. She was making herself an easy target, a life-sized bull’s-eye stuck in the mud.

     'I think so,' she decided.

'Good, OK.'

R.J. looked around once more.

'On three, Marilyn. OK? One. Two. Three.'

Marilyn moved to the right with her eyes firmly closed. The mud clung to her hefty coat and made a slurping sound as she rolled, like the bottom of an empty cup being sucked with a straw.

No shot was fired.

R.J. grabbed her elbow with his free hand and pulled her up, spinning her until she was out of immediate danger, behind the cover of shrubbery.

'You sure you're not hurt?'

Marilyn checked her body, patting herself down, pulling the coat tight around herself searching for blood stains amongst the mud.

'Yeah, I'm fine, I think. Can you seen anyone, can you see Jack?'

'Nothing, can't see anyone. The shot came from over there, behind those bushes.' He pointed.

**

     'Walter O'Sullivan, this is Sheriff Rupert John Russell. I know you're out there. Where is the boy, where's Jack?’

O'Sullivan did not reply, instead he used the sound of R.J.'s voice to trace a path to where Marilyn and the sheriff were hiding, but he still couldn't see them. He waited.

'I know you can hear me, O'Sullivan, all we want is the boy. Give him to us and we'll be on our way.' He waited. 'We only want, Jack. At least let us know that he's OK, that you haven't hurt him.'

That was all he needed, that little speech let O'Sullivan know exactly where the sheriff was, now all he wanted was a nice clean shot, right between the eyes, the sheriff or the woman, it didn't matter. One was just as good as the other.

'Listen, Walter. I know about your son, about David. And I'm really, really sorry about what happened to David, and you, and to your family. But what you're doing now isn't right. Think about it. Think about what you're doing, Walter,' he said, with real empathy.

     'You don't know a fucking thing about me, Sheriff,' O'Sullivan screamed, breaking his silence, chastising the air with his viciousness. 'Not a fucking thing. Stop trying to identify with me. It'll never work.'

**

R.J. stuck his head out from behind the shrubs, looking in the direction of O'Sullivan's voice, searching. Marilyn stood hunched behind him, looking from over his shoulder. They could see nothing.

'OK, Walter. I…’

'And stop calling me Walter,' the voice snapped, echoing amongst the trees. 'Walter has been gone for a long time. He was a weak, fucking piss-ant, cry baby that couldn't fend for himself. He let people walk over him for long enough. I'm in charge now,' he boasted. 'It was a real shame what happened to David, he was my son, too.' His voiced changed. 'Do you know how it feels to lose a child? To hold his cold, dead, bloody corpse in your arms, watched by a hundred strangers at the side of a road? DO YOU FUCKING KNOW HOW THAT FEELS?' he screamed, painfully.

There was no reply.

'But he's gone. David's not coming back no matter how hard Walter tries. He's got to let it go. Or it will ruin him and fucking destroy us both and I've taken the back seat for way too long now, I'm not going to sit around anymore.' He laughed his inhuman callous laugh. 'Oh, and before I forget, did you see what I left for your kind at the farmhouse, pretty, isn't it?'

'That fucking twister motherfucker,' growled R.J. his face an enraged smudge of crimson. 'It seems like the old timer was right on the button. This guy is completely crazy,’ he finished under his breath.
The calm was slipping away from Marilyn, they were getting nowhere. She needed to see Jack, to know he was OK.

     'Sheriff. Ask him where Jack is again. We're wasting time here,' she pushed.

R.J. stuck his head out a little further.

'OK, I understand, you're in charge. Let’s get down to business here, what shall I call you?'

     'Look, I don't fucking care,' roared O'Sullivan, infuriated by the exchange. 'I'm not here to make friends. Why don't you stick your head out a little more, Sheriff? Give me something good to shoot at.'

R.J. brought his head back, using the forest once more to conceal himself.

     'Where's Jack? Let us see him, we need to know that you haven't hurt him. Like I said, all we want is the boy,' he begged.

'I'm afraid you're shit out of luck there, Sheriff. The boy's gone.'

'What do you me…'

Before R.J. could do anything Marilyn was up and on her feet, her face a convoluted rufescent red. She stamped her shoes into the ground, preparing to charge.

'Come on, you bastard, where's my fucking son, where's Jack? What have you done with him, you sick fuck?' she screeched. 'Tell me, tell me where he is. Jack, baby, can you hear me? Jack?'

**

O'Sullivan couldn't see her head, just her stomach, but that would suffice. A slow and excruciating death. Just what the doctor ordered, and what the bitch deserved.

The same as before, O'Sullivan closed his weaker eye, took in a deep breath and held it, taking note of the recoil this time.

**

There was a loud crack.

R.J. saw it, the saying 'if you blink you'll miss it' couldn't have been truer. It was just a rustle in the corner of his eye, the swish of a muzzle, the shimmer of death's scythe popping up to say goodbye. Without a single regard for his own safety, R.J. threw himself at Marilyn with both arms outstretched, a rugby tackle of sorts, toppling her sidewards.

The bullet made easy work of R.J.'s body, treating it like an inexpensive piece of meat as it tore through his clothing and buried itself deep into his flesh. It minced its way in, churning up anything in its path, rupturing his intestines. It went no further, lodged, pinned cosily in the plethora of internal organs. The blood dribbled from the hole and through his clutched fingers. He rolled off Marilyn, leaving the stain of his dripping, red-black death on her coat.

Marilyn couldn't scream. Her voice box closed up, sealing away the ability to produce sound. It was horrifying.

**

O'Sullivan couldn't suffocate the sound of his laughter, not that he wanted to. It bellowed and it became even louder the more he began to enjoy his own triumph.

**

      Marilyn crawled on her hands and knees to R.J's feet and pulled him back through the muck. She heaved him up so he was resting out of sight with his back against a trunk. She sat on the back of her ankles with her face inches away from the sheriff’s. She clicked her fingers repeatedly next to his closing eyes.

'Sheriff, listen to me, listen to my voice. Don't fall asleep, you hear me? Keep your eyes open. God-dammit, keep them open,' she urged, keeping her ears perked, readily listening for the sound of O'Sullivan.