[Castlewood]

(Part 3 cont.)


Before Hank could tell anymore of the story, we felt a loud bang burst out from under the red truck, and the big man tried everything in his power to keep control of it. Within seconds, the truck swerved and zigzagged until it ran off the road and slammed into a small ditch. We were all okay, just a little shaken. The real bitch of it was that we were only half way to my car, and it was still pouring like a madman.

“What the fuck just happened?” Hank yelled out. Poor Bobbi was shaking next to me, clinging onto my arm.

“Can we get out of here?” I asked the big man.

“Don’t know. Might be too muddy from the rain.” He tried starting the truck back up, but it was no use. Smoke was rising from the hood; it was toast. “Goddammit!” Hank yelled. “Alright folks, I guess we’ll have to grab the donut from the back and walk the rest of the way. I think I got a jack back there too, I reckon.”

“Oh, it’s no problem... I have a jack in my trunk,” I replied.

Hank quickly got out of the truck, his feet landing in a deep puddle of mud and rain. “These here are my favorite goddamn shoes,” he complained to himself. He started walking to the back of his pickup and I looked at Bobbi as we continued sitting in the front.

“Babe, I want you to stay here, okay? I’m just gonna get out and help him. We’ll only be a few seconds, and then you can come out and we’ll all walk to my car together, okay?”

She nodded her head, but I could tell she didn’t like the idea. I scooted over to the driver’s seat and exited the truck, feeling cold rain hit the top of my head. I too landed in muddy waters, pissed off and frustrated. I walked to the back, standing next to Hank as he opened up the back hitch.

“You carry the tire... I’ll carry this,” he said, holding up something that I truly wasn’t expecting. It was a shotgun, and a big ass one at that. He rolled the tire over to me and I caught it, holding the round slab of rubber uncomfortably. As Hank closed up the back hitch, I noticed a wooden baseball bat lying on the truck bed as well. This was not as concerning as the weapon Hank was holding, however.

“What’s the shotgun for?” I asked.

“Never know when you’re gonna need it,” Hank replied. “I figure if the donut works and you make it off the road safe, maybe ya’ll could give me a lift to the police station. Deputy Richards will probably help me out with some of his boys.”

I smiled warmly, feeling forever in his debt. “I’d be happy to.” I looked up at the front of the truck and saw that Bobbi was still sitting calmly. I was proud of her; seventeen year-old girls aren’t supposed to be stranded in a ditch during a heavy storm with a strange hillbilly. She was doing well. “Hey babe! We’re ready when you are!”

She immediately opened the passenger door and got out, looking at me in excitement. “So the donut’s gonna fit?”

“Not so sure,” Hank responded. “It most likely will, but you never know.”

Before Bobbi, Hank, or I could make another peep, we saw something dash across the road and jump into the air, landing directly on Hank’s chest. I flinched back in shock, Bobbi screamed, and Hank’s face turned white as a ghost. He dropped his shotgun, and I dropped the tire. Sinking its claws into the poor man’s neck was a large white cat, and there was something on its back that almost made my heart pound out of its chest. The cat had a black streak horizontally on his fur, and Bobbi and I could clearly tell that it was a tire mark. It was Sinclair. It was the cat we ran over and killed. There he was, clinging onto Hank’s chest as the petrified man screamed in terror. This didn’t make sense.

“Get it off! Get this fuckin’ thing off me!”

I didn’t know what to do; I was frozen. I simply looked at Bobbi and told her to run. “Get outta here, Bobbi! Find somewhere safe!”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere! I’m not leaving you!”

“Bobbi, go! I’ll find you! Find shelter!”

“I’m going back to the house!”

“No! Bobbi, don’t! Bobbi!”

Before I could stop her, she was already gone, running back to Oliver McGill’s log cabin. I looked at Hank, whose arms were flying around trying to beat the cat off of him. “Get the fuckin’ thing off me! Help! Help goddammit!”

I couldn’t pick up the shotgun because I didn’t want to blow the poor man’s head off, so I remembered the baseball bat in the truck bed and went after it. I went to the side, picked it up without any trouble and ran back to Hank. To my surprise, Hank was running in circles, trying to get the undead animal off his chest. I tried to meet him with the bat in my hand, but he was moving too fast, running aimlessly in delirium.

“Hank! Stop! Let me hit the damn thing!”

“Help! Help! Get it off! It’s biting me! It’s fuckin’ biting me!”

I didn’t have a good shot; I honestly didn’t want to hit him and cause any more pain, so I watched the cat get angrier, and with each scream that Hank gave, Sinclair dug his claws into the man’s chest even deeper. It crawled up to his face and started attacking; I could see blood running down the front of his overalls, mixing in with rain. His screams turned into gargles, and he stopped running. He simply stood there as Sinclair got on top of his head, and he buried his sharp teeth into Hank’s face. Within seconds, seconds that felt like eternity, I watched in horror as Sinclair finally let go of Hank. The white cat dropped to the rainy ground and ran away from me before I could smack it with the baseball bat. The thing that terrified me the most, though, was that Sinclair was running in the same direction that Bobbi went: back to the house. I had no time to think; I ran to Hank, hoping that I could help him. When I got within a few inches of him, I was startled by what I saw. The poor man’s right eye was missing, and the left one was dangling from the socket, resting against his cheek.

“I... I can’t... I... I can’t see anything,” Hank cried. He sounded so sad, like he wasn’t even in pain.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I said, staring at him as he stood there. I lowered my eyes to look at his chest and I simply gasped. Sinclair had dug a deep hole right between both breasts, and I could see the poor man’s exposed heart beating, and with each pump of blood a crimson river flowed down his overalls like a waterfall straight to hell. He fell to the ground and lay there, motionless. “It... it doesn’t... hurt.”

“I’m so sorry man... I’m sorry,” I cried. Tears were streaming down my face. I couldn’t help it.

“You... you go help her... you go stop them... They’s gonna kill her... stop the cats, boy. Stop them.” Before I could answer him, I watched Hank’s exposed heart stop beating. The poor man was blind and dead.

I could barely stand. My knees were shaking harder than the first time I slow danced with Bobbi on Homecoming night. She was gone from me now, separated, and I knew I had to save her. I looked down and picked up Hank’s shotgun; the baseball bat was in my other hand so I tucked it in the back of my pants. Holding the gun, I walked back to the bed of the pickup truck and looked for more supplies. There was a red gas can. I took it. I already had a lighter in my pocket from smoking some of the weed in my backseat.

Shotgun. Check.
Baseball bat. Check.
Gas can. Check.
Lighter. Check.

As the hard rain fell on me in the center of the road, I looked up to the sky and screamed at the top of my lungs. I held everything firmly and began sprinting back to Oliver McGill’s house.

To be concluded...