Posted on July 20, 2007

The Hole: Part 21

The screaming was louder and then the line of crazies flexed in the middle, some of them falling back as the attackers charged in. Elliot watched as a huge man dressed like a farmer smashed the head of one the crazies with a shovel. The blade, shiny in the firelight, caught him just below the ear and sank in a few inches. Elliot was glad for the commotion because it meant he didn’t have to hear that hit, didn’t have to listen to bone break and grind on the shovel’s steel.

The farmer pulled it free, laughing, and soon he was joined by more rescuers or murderers–Elliot didn’t know which–dressed in similar down home styles, waving bats and scythes and axes, some with torches and one taking aim with a rifle. The gun went off horrifically, and Elliot flinched back against the far wall of the cave as the tall suit, who’d remained nearby, fell, coughing and clawing at his throat where the bullet had torn a hole as big as coffee cup.

Elliot was yelling now, “I’m not one of them!” over and over, hands by his ears from the sound of the gun and still the attackers came through the broken line, smashing crazies’ arms and faces, breaking backs, shattering knees. The violence overwhelmed him, and he cowered down against the rock and dirt, looking away but still shouting his plea not to kill him, that he wasn’t with the woman in red, he wasn’t crazy and just wanted to get the hell out of here. “I’m not one of them!” he said again, nearly crying, as the man with the shovel stood over him, holding the weapon above his head, ready to bring it down and Elliot with it.

But then the short suit, who’d somehow made it back through the heart of the melee, grabbed the large farmer around the shoulders and wrenched at his chin, yanking the man’s head back, but not breaking his neck. The two fell, kicking and clawing, and Elliot reached tentatively for the shovel. He snared it and pulled it to him, clutching it hard and backing away. The suit climbed on top of the farmer and gibbered, babbling out his insane language in long strings of nonsense punctuated by spitting and, a few times, biting.

At the mouth of the cave, the crazies had grouped, reorganizing themselves into a fighting force of sorts, several wielding the dropped weapons of the attackers. Elliot saw bodies, at least a dozen, but in the uneven light of the fires and the madness of the brawl, he couldn’t tell how many were from each party. He didn’t know who he was rooting for, anyway, and wished only that an opening would appear and he could run back into the forest and keep running until he passed out, like an overdriven horse.

The fight beside him ended. The suit had made it to his feet and, as Elliot watched horrified, kicked the last life out of the enormous farmer. Elliot raised the shovel and said, “Get away from me,” but the suit ignored him, instead heading back to the cave’s entrance to join his companions.

Elliot’s mind was very near shutting down. The shovel felt too heavy, and the heat from the fire, concentrated at the back of the cave, made his vision blurry, his face hurt, and his legs wobbly. He couldn’t sit down, had to keep himself up and ready to run, but more than anything he wanted to turn around, put his face against the wall–or down in the cool dirt–and shout or cry until this was all over. Because he hated watching the fight and the violence; and seeing the suit do that to a man, even another crazy, was beyond Elliot’s experience–or, really, his comprehension. Being chased by the crazies, even being captured, he could handle, for what they were up to was ominous, yes, but it wasn’t acute. The Wal-mart woman was an exception to that, with her sudden violence, but the woman in red and the two suits hadn’t actually hurt him. They hadn’t broken skin.

A lot of skin was being broken now, though. And bones. Screams echoed in the cave. Blood muddied the ground. Crazies were hurting each other–killing each other–and it was like someone had poured two wasp nets into the same paper bag. So Elliot held the shovel and he screamed.

And then it was over. The sounds of the fight fell away except for moans. The cave was emptier now, and the remaining combatants, perhaps ten inside and an unknown number out in the woods, were all members of the attackers. Elliot, still holding the shovel, told himself this wasn’t what it looked like, that they weren’t going to turn their weapons on him. It was silly–he’d seen what these people did–but he had to believe it because otherwise he’d likely go mad.

A young man, blood on the side of his face and hair dirty and sticky, came towards him, hand held out. Elliot shifted the shovel, tightening his grip, and prepared himself to kill this man.

Who said, “Thank God we found you. Are you okay?”

Elliot blinked. The crazies didn’t speak English.

“Are you okay?” the man said again when Elliot didn’t respond.

Elliot shook his head, slowly.

“You’re hurt? Where?” The man took a step closer, looking Elliot over, but Elliot lifted the shovel. “No, wait, no,” the man said, backing up. “It’s okay, we’re here to help.”

Elliot didn’t believe him, not really, and so he kept ready to attack, to fight whatever it was this guy and his friends tried to do.

“Look,” the man said, hands up, “we came here to get you, to help you. Do you understand?”

Elliot nodded.

The man continued, “You’re lucky we found you. These people, they’d have hurt you or worse. We’ve seen them before and that’s what they do: they’re mean and evil. But you’re safe now.”

Elliot, still shaking and still not willing to trust anyone, asked the question that’d plagued him since he’d first climbed out of the overturned truck. “Where’s Evajean?” he said. “Where’s Evajean Rhodes?”