Ripples Read online

  I look down. “I’ve got no shoes.”

  “You’ve been holed up here for days eating through food I’ve scavenged, and you don’t make the effort to notice what’s right under your nose.” Mercedes points to boxes in the corner. “This is the last time I’m bailing you out. After this, it’s sink or swim—save your own hide.”

  I walk over to the boxes. Dig through them and pull out a pair of sneakers. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  Mercedes shrugs.

  RJ stumbles into the hut with a full bucket. “The leg’s holding. I think I’ll live.”

  I cinch up the shoelaces. “Good thing. If you die, she’ll make you dig your own grave.”

  Mercedes furrows her brow. “We need to make a trip back to the ranch house. I scoped it out the other night. There’s plenty there to keep us going for a while.” She takes the crossbow down from its peg.

  RJ and I smile at each other.

  Mercedes glares. “You two coming?”

  Mercedes

  I gag on the stench as soon as we open the back door to Uncle Eric’s ranch house. By the time we get to his bedroom, I can hardly breathe. His bloated corpse is lying in a disgusting pool of slime that still oozes from rotted patches of skin. A swarm of flies buzzes around him. RJ recoils at the sight of maggots eating away at the dark purple crater where a face used to be. He retches. Amy presses her face against his back and shuts her eyes.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I mutter as I step back into the hallway, skirting past RJ and Amy. Halfway down the hall, I call over my shoulder. “I said let’s go.”

  When they join me in the kitchen where I’m rummaging through the pantry, I tell them, “We might as well take as much of this as we can carry. It’s not like he has any use for it.”

  RJ chokes back tears. “We need to bury him. I can’t leave him like that for who-knows-what to pick apart. I’m sure I can find a couple shovels in the barn.”

  I stuff cans and boxes of food from the cupboards into a couple of garbage bags and point to the fridge. “Amy can help me empty that.”

  Amy moves over next to RJ. “I’ll help him dig.”

  “Do whatever you want, but I’m not carrying all this back to the hut by myself.”

  RJ starts for the back door and stops short. “Let’s just move in here. The place has everything we need.”

  I toss a box of mac-and-cheese into a plastic sack. “My place is safer. Too easy for people to find us here.”

  RJ scratches his head. “What’s wrong with people finding us?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not staying under somebody else’s roof—ever again—especially this place.”

  Amy tugs RJ’s sleeve. “Come on RJ.”

  I point to the hallway. “The last thing we need is for someone to find us here with a corpse. They’ll think we killed him. We’ll spend the rest of our lives in jail.”

  Amy pulls RJ out the door.

  I call after them. “We don’t have time for loafing … or socializing.”

  While they dig, I collect and sort everything in the house we might be able to use. Stuff we’ll need right away—perishable food and the like—goes into garbage bags we can hang over the horses’ backs. Other things go into boxes I find stacked in a closet that I empty. We can come back and get the boxes later.

  When that’s done, I walk back to the bedroom. This time the stench stops me cold at the doorway. Stomach acid works its way up into my throat. It seems worse than earlier.

  I turn away and take a deep breath before rushing into the room. I jerk the sheets off the bed and fling them next to Uncle Eric’s body. When I bend down to start wrapping him, he seems to stare at me with eyes bulging out of his mangled face. I start to heave. Tiny stars swirl in front of me. I dart back into the hall. My skin tingles. I bend over and gasp for breath.

  A moment later, I charge back into the bedroom, kneel in the pool of slime, fight the urge to puke, throw a sheet over him. But in my head I still see maggots, holes where buckshot tore into his skin—skin that makes the world’s worst case of blackheads look good. I turn the body to wrap it in bedding … flesh comes off the bone … I drop the foul mess … it falls in my lap … I stare at the slime covering the palms of my hand, my fingertips. I retch all over poor Uncle Eric’s stomach. I try to take deep breaths … get control of myself, but the stench I’ve tried to block out of my mind fills my lungs, my mouth, my nose. I bolt out of the room.

  Out in the hall, I pull my shirt over my face, hoping to block out the foul, putrid smell. Breathe slowly. Figure out how to handle all this. We have to clean up this mess. What if someone finds it? Worse, what if they somehow connect it to us? Prison’s not an option for me. I’d rather die.

  I rush back into the room, telling myself this isn’t real. Just like when I skinned my first rabbit. This is survival. I kneel again on the carpet next to Uncle Eric. He’s just sleeping. It’s not slime … just mud. No. It’s not really him or anyone else. It’s a roasted pig. I’ve read about what they call luaus. When they’re done right, the meat pulls right off the bone—the same as small game. I tell myself that’s how it’s supposed to be … stretch out the bedding next to my him, roll him over, tuck the bedding around him, roll him again until the bedding is all used up.

  When the roasted pig is secure in his wrapping, I stagger into the hall, again gasping for air. I hope it’s enough to stop the oozing and keep us from making a mess as we carry him outside.

  In the kitchen, I find RJ and Amy standing at the backdoor, whispering. “What took you so long?” I ask.

  RJ looks over at me. “We wanted to bury him deep enough that nothing could dig him up.”

  Amy nods. “We found a couple picks to loosen the ground and two shovels so we could dig at the same time; otherwise, we’d still be at it.”

  I point to the hallway. “I’ve wrapped him in blankets and sheets to make him easier to carry. Come on, give me a hand.”

  Instead of the grotesque sight of Uncle Eric’s corpse, a near-formless bundle lies just inside the bedroom door. The putrid odor still hangs in the room, the carpet still gives away the room’s gruesome secret. Each of us grabs a handful of blanket and lifts on my count of three. Amy’s corner drags as we waddle through the door.

  “Keep it off the ground,” I insist. “The slime’s leaking through.”

  Amy chokes back nausea as she wrestles with her corner. She loses her grip several times, leaving smudges along the hallway and kitchen floor.

  Once the body is buried, I lead the others back inside. “This damn mess in the hallway is a dead giveaway. Anybody who stumbles in here will figure out in no time what’s gone on.” I scrunch up my nose. “Let’s get it cleaned up.”

  “Wait,” RJ holds up a hand. “We have something we wanna say.” He looks at Amy. She nods.

  “What is it?” I fold my arms across my chest.

  RJ pulls back his shoulders. “We’re okay with staying at your place as long as you promise to stop bullying us.”

  “I’m not bullying. I’m just taking charge. Neither of you knows how to survive out here on your own.”

  Amy glares. “We just wanna have a say.”

  I study her, taken off guard by her boldness. “And if I don’t agree to stop … bullying?”

  “Then Amy and I stay here, and you leave all that stuff behind. It’s my stuff now that Uncle Eric’s … dead.”

  I stare at RJ, waiting for him to blink. He doesn’t.

  Finally, I break the standoff. “Everyone carries their own weight and I’ll be fine.”

  He nods. “I’ve fed and saddled two horses. Figure we might as well use them. I put the rest out to pasture.”

  My jaw drops. “You expect me to climb on one of those things?”

  He shrugs. Amy snickers.

  Someone bangs on the front door. We all look to the hallway.

  The banging is joined by a raspy voice. “Anybody home?�
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  RJ’s eyes widen as he whispers, “It’s old man Miller. He lives down the road.”

  “Does he know you?”

  “Yeah. He stops by sometimes. Last time, he chewed my ass real good about us neglecting the horses.”

  I nod toward the hallway. “Go see what he wants. And get rid of him.”

  Miller bangs on the front door and calls out again.

  “Just a minute,” RJ shouts.

  Amy and I follow RJ down the hall and hold back as he turns the corner a few feet from the front door. When RJ steps out on the porch, Miller demands to see Uncle Eric about those “damned horses and that god-awful stench” he’s smelled the last couple times he’s dropped by.

  “He’s out riding,” RJ tells him. “I can have him come by your place when he gets back.”

  “And what about that smell? You didn’t let one of those sick horses die, did you?”

  “No, sir. What I mean is, we had a stillborn colt. I just got around to burying it. It had been laying out behind the house.”

  “You and your damned uncle belong in jail for the way you treat those animals. I’m done talking about. It’s animal cruelty.” Miller’s voice cracks.

  “Mr. Miller, I swear I’m taking ….”

  “You aren’t doing squat.”

  “I’ve been sick.”

  “That’s no damn excuse. I’ve come by here for the past three days. And every time, those poor horses were shut up in filthy stalls full of piss and dung. They’d have starved if I hadn’t thrown them some hay.”

  “But, Mr. Miller ….”

  “Keep your whining for the sheriff. I expect they’ll be here real soon.”

  “You called them?”

  “You betcha, I did. So you best saddle up and go find that worthless uncle of yours. I’ll just wait here ‘til they come.”

  RJ hobbles around the corner and stops short in front of us. His face is ash-white. He whispers, “Did you hear that? He called the sheriff. We gotta get out of here or our asses are going to jail.”

  Amy’s face goes white. “They’ll hang us.”

  I grab her by the shoulders. “Get a grip. This is not time for hysterics. Out to the barn. Now.”

  The three of us hurry into the kitchen, take the loaded garbage bags, slip out the back door, and rush into the barn. Once we’ve tied the bags onto the mare, I grab RJ’s arm. “You ride your horse hard, that way.” I point out past the side of the house. “While the old man’s keeping his eye on you, we’ll lead the mare out the back way and up into the woods. You can circle back around and meet us once you’re out of his sight.”

  “Can’t you just meet me back at the hut?”

  I gulp. “I’m not climbing up on that thing.”

  He looks at Amy. “Do you know how to ride?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I can’t believe it,” he mutters as he climbs up onto the stallion.

  Deputy Sheriff Baker

  Old man Miller stands on the front porch. “About time.”

  “What’s that odor?” I ask.

  “The boy said something about a stillborn colt rotting out back.”

  “Is the boy around?”

  Miller points toward the pasture. “Sent him after his uncle about half-hour ago. The boy said he was out for a ride.”

  “Let’s go check the horses. They still in the barn?”

  “Saw some of them out in the pasture when I got here. Guess the boy finally got around to doing some of his chores. Damned kids these days.”

  I smirk as I round the corner of the house toward the barn. Miller follows, recounting what he’d witnessed of the horses’ neglect over the last several days. About halfway between the ranch house and the barn I stop and stare back at the steps to the kitchen. Miller tracks my line of sight and asks, “What is it, Sheriff?”

  Without a word, I walk back to the ranch house, scanning a path along the ground where something heavy appears to have been dragged. At the back steps I put on a latex glove, dab my finger on a wet spot, and sniff. “Shit!”

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure. How long did he say the colt’s carcass had been laying out here?”

  “Didn’t say. But obviously long enough to rot.”

  I hold up a hand. “Stay put.”

  I follow the trail of soft dirt, stopping now and then to crouch and get a closer view. At several points I poke my latex-gloved finger into splotches of slime. After about twenty feet, I stop where a patch of ground has been dug up—about six feet long and a couple feet wide. I press the ‘Talk’ button on the radio Velcroed to my shoulder. “This is Deputy Sheriff Baker. I need a team with their forensic kits up here at Eric Lamb’s ranch. And … better alert the coroner. I think we’ve got another body.”

  I stand and walk back to Miller. “This whole area’s a crime scene. Why don’t we go back to the front porch and have a little chat about your neighbor?”

  On the front porch, Miller rants about Eric Lamb and their disputes over his neglected horses. Miller acknowledges he never felt threatened by his neighbor—a mild-tempered sort. Yes, he heard gunfire occasionally, a lot of it a few nights ago, but figured someone was knocking down a pack of coyotes. He didn’t know about any enemies his neighbor might have and hardly ever saw visitors coming or going. A boy, his nephew, had been staying with him the past couple of years. The boy was lazy like most, but polite, respectful. Never noticed any anger problems.

  After a half-hour of getting no leads from Miller, my backup unit comes barreling up the long dirt drive from the road, raising a cloud of dust. I send the old man home.

  As the two deputies step out of their vehicle, I ask, “You guys got the warrant?”

  “Right here.” Deputy Grimes waves a folded paper at me.

  “Grimes, you start around back. I think there’s a body buried off one corner of the house, about twenty feet from the back porch. Thompson, you join me in the house.”

  Thompson and I cover our mouths and noses as we enter through the front door, into the bare-bones living room. A gun rack over the fireplace has one empty slot. Nothing else catches our attention until we come to the hallway—a spray of buckshot and traces of blood spatter on the wall at the entrance to the kitchen. I nod in the direction of the bedrooms. “Let’s see what we find back here. Watch your step. That mess on the floor is evidence.”

  The stench hangs like a thick fog as we move down the hallway. The first bedroom is small. A couple of rock band posters pinned up on one wall, dirty clothes scattered on the floor, bed unmade. “The neighbor mentioned a boy,” I say to Thompson. “This must be his room. Let’s check out the other one.”

  The second bedroom is larger. I choke on the odor, burns my lungs. Flies swarm all around. The bed’s been stripped. Blood splatters on one wall and a large stain on the carpet where a body must have bled out, and the corpse likely lay decomposing for several days. Could have been a couple weeks, and by the looks of things, the body was recently moved. “Dead colt, my ass,” I mutter.

  I scan the floor for casings. None evident. “Whoever did this knew to pick up after himself. The kid looks to be too much of a slob to be so thorough. Could have been him, but I doubt it.”

  Thompson nods.

  I wave my hand around the room. “You get some pictures while I go out back and check with Grimes.”

  Down the hallway toward the kitchen, I sidestep the smudges, not wanting to contaminate any evidence. I glance around the kitchen and jot a note. Someone appears to have been packing or unpacking, but didn’t finish. Either a typical teenage boy, or a looter who got interrupted.

  I pause on the back steps and assess Grimes’s progress. A dozen plaster casts in the ground around the grave indicate footprints left behind. He’s started excavating what figures to be a grave, about six inches deep so far. He’s being deliberate.

  “Need a hand?” I ask.

  Grimes hands me
a field shovel. “Be my guest.”

  “Wanna take bets on how deep he is?”

  Grimes grins. “Isn’t betting against the law?”

  I scoop up a bit of loose dirt.

  A foot down, I blot my brow with a handkerchief. “We’ve got to hit him soon.”

  Grimes takes over. Close to eighteen inches, he wipes his forehead. “Guess we can’t call this one a shallow grave.”

  After about six more inches, with beads of sweat dripping from his face, Grimes holds up one hand. “I’ve got something.”

  I grab a paintbrush from the forensic kit and start sweeping away loose dirt.

  “Looks like an arm, Boss.”

  I nod. “Here, you finish. I’ll call in the cavalry.”

  Within an hour, the coroner is processing Eric Lamb’s body and a half-dozen reserve deputies are casing the scene for traces of evidence.

  Carl

  The French doors leading into Jacob’s kitchen are wide open. I peek in—no Jacob. A moment later, he slides open the door to his bedroom a few feet away. “Carl, I’m over here.”

  Inside the bedroom an array of survival gear and a backpack are laid out on the bed. Propped up next to his nightstand is his Beretta SO5.

  “What’s this about?” I ask.

  Jacob starts stuffing things into the pack. “I’m going to find the girl.”

  “And the shotgun—what’s that for?”

  He smirks. “Who knows? I might come across a bear or something.”

  “Didn’t the sheriff confiscate your firearms?”

  “They must’ve missed the bunker. I found it down there when I grabbed the rest of this stuff. Not the only time I’ve misplaced it lately.”

  “Don’t take this wrong—but I have to ask. Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “You know. Shoot your neighbor.”

  He drops his pack on the bed. “Honestly, Carl—I wish I could remember. I don’t know how I got there—or the shovel either. I went to his shack earlier that night. Followed him for a couple miles along a firebreak to a ranch house. Someone started shooting inside the place. A couple of people came running out. Then everything goes blank until I’m standing in front of my neighbor’s shack watching it burn—and Baker starts asking questions.”