Flesh and Blood

First of all, I'd like to thank St. Jean for her review. So nice getting reviews... and it was a good one. Anyway...

11
Craig Barkley awoke with a start and his vision dimmed as he looked at his surroundings. His arms prickled from going numb and he realized they were bound above his head, tied to some higher attachment in the wall he now leant against. His ankles were similarly bound, and it became clear that he was not going anywhere anytime soon. Agony rippled through his right thigh from a deep wound. Even as his vision came back, most likely blurred by the knock to his skull which now throbbed, he could hardly see anything and presumed night had fallen. He could make out vertical parallel bars, with moonlight peeing through them, and he smelt pine. Firewood. At first the man hardly knew what had happened to him, but in an instant his memories returned, almost as shocking and painful as the gouge in his leg.
The creature was real. The one who attacked him and—
Oh god. Andrew.
That horse-fucking bastard killed Andrew.
They were going to go hunting that day. It would have been Andrew’s first real hunting trip, rather than practicing at a shooting range. They wanted to find the most untamed part of the state to fulfill their goal of bringing home a great big buck. Andrew had been so excited, talking about the trip for weeks…
He was going to kill that monster. Craig was going to get himself loose, escape, and kill that bastard who mutilated his boy.
Concentrating, the man felt the bindings around his wrists. They were leather… a belt of some sort; he could feel the buckle eyes with his fingertips. Leaning against the wooden planks of his prison, he felt them creak against loose nails. Another sound arose and he froze in place. Footsteps were approaching. Daring to hardly breathe, Craig listened closely and heard the giggling of the perverted thing which had shot him in the leg. Fortunately, the thing opened a door several feet away and went inside, shutting the door. A cabin must have been stationed right next to the wooden prison.
Craig Barkley hardly had any sort of strategy. Vengeance was the only thing on his mind, and the monstrosity who had killed and probably done other perverted sick things to Andrew was going to wish it was never born. In a fit of rage, he pulled as hard as he could, and the plank to which he was attached gave a creaking groan before it came loose. Craig could care less if the prick inside the house heard the noise. He grabbed the belt which had bound his hands before and the broken plank, fingering the splintered, tapered edge.
Escaping what he now realized was a chicken coop, Craig peered cautiously into the nearby window. A few lamps had been lit, but he otherwise saw no source of light in the interior. Most likely the resident had no electricity to speak of. The figure walked past the window and Craig jumped back into the dark, but he was no notice to his attacker. Carefully, the man raised his head and glanced inside once more.
Past the dust and grime of the window panes, Craig saw the décor of the cabin and a shiver tore through him. Hanging from the ceiling and rafters were bones, bleached white, dangling from leather strips like wind chimes. Also clacking against one another were metal tools, some for construction, some for cooking. He had a feeling what they were all used for though, judging by the amount of bones. This thing living here had also been a collector for quite some time of his victims’ possessions. Random objects and devices lay about the interior, including camping gear, hunting equipment, and sentimental belongings. He recognized the bow and rifle from his own car, as well as the handheld video game Andrew had been playing with during the ride.
Where in God’s name WAS Andrew?
Like an answer from the powers that be, the creature went past the window again, a body in tow. Craig recognized his little boy as this bastard dumped his lifeless form onto the table. Andrew’s eyes stayed open, staring dead orbs of blue. Blood dripped off of the table and the father had to look away when a saw edged blade came out of the freak’s belt. Scooping up some of the viscous red juice with a malformed left hand, the freak sucked on the nectar, savoring the treat almost to the point of looking aroused. Giggling again, the monstrous thing continued to drink in pleasure as he slowly caressed his belly, larger than it should be for a person so thin.
Sinking back into the shadows, Craig found himself crying. But he shut his emotions away. He would have time to mourn Andrew’s death when he was done avenging his only son.
He waited until his captor had extinguished all of the lamps and presumably fallen asleep. Craig could not go inside and retrieve his son, as much as he wished to. He had to get that bastard out… get him outside and kill him. He picked up a heavy stone, bigger than his two fists, and hurled it through a window. The glass shattered loudly, and Craig ran back around the cabin. The bastard would most likely check the coop for his captured prey. Door banging open, he indeed did, grunting in agitation, a big bowie knife in his disgusting left hand. Craig took the chance and ran into the cabin.
He almost lost his nerve when he saw Andrew splayed out like a dissection project on the table. Some pieces of him were missing. But Craig could not waste the time to grieve over the remains; if he dallied for too long, the shit head who had taken the father and son would come running in and kill him too. He had to be strong for Andrew, and take the chance now to save himself so that he could escape with his son’s body. Hearing the squeals and grunts of his attacker, Craig grabbed his rifle and quickly checked the barrel. Thank god, the gun was still loaded. He lifted the barrel just in time to see the monstrosity fill the doorway.
That disgusting stomach might have been from years of alcohol. It could have been a tumor. Craig did not want to see anymore of it, and aimed, pulling the trigger.
His attacker dodged the bullet at the last second and slammed the door again, trying to put some distance between them, possibly to go find another weapon. No you don’t, Craig thought. Come back, you stupid fuck. Furious now, with blood on his mind, the man shot through the door as he ran in pursuit of his new prey. Reloading, he swung the door open and jumped outside, ready to get some slaughter done.
He was too preoccupied with thoughts of revenge to realize his attacker was waiting for him. The bowie knife came for his throat, but he dodged, just barely. Blood shot from his neck as he turned away from the assault. The skinny little bastard was quicker than Craig thought! Instantly, the thing was on him again, kicking the gun aside as he took another swipe with his blade. Craig’s foot met between the fiend’s legs and his opponent doubled over for a second. This second was all the man needed, and he lunged for the rifle again, wheeling as he fell and aiming.
The deformed thing, now angry, reached for him as the gun fired, and a bullet cut through flesh in his misshapen left shoulder. Squalling in pain, he pulled out another knife and approached again, a menacing grin forming on his ugly face. Craig had another bullet though, and pulled the trigger one more time.
An explosion followed and the bullet sailed right through Three Finger’s chest. At first pain was nonexistent, but when he moved, he was reminded that yes, he had been shot. His insides burned and at first he could not breathe. He did not have time to wonder what organs had been hit, or whether he was strong enough to withstand the wound. He simply bent over for a moment and finally turned around, escape on his mind. He had to survive for his pup.
Another bullet cut into his back and he fell on his knees. The prey behind him was laughing now, yelling out insults and words of triumph, but Three Finger did not listen. He could not even see the cabin in front of him. All he saw were the dead faces of his family, and he thought of how they could die, no matter how strong they seemed.
Feeling dizzy, the only thing that brought him back to the present was the other man’s rifle, planted firmly against the back of his head.