While Marcus was giving his final goodbye to his older sister, it soon became clear to the funeral director why he’d asked for the stitches to be removed. Marcus had—according to local legend—bent over into the coffin, cuddling his dead sister’s body. Soon after, he proceeded to kiss her on the mouth in the most inappropriate way, something that none of the other mourners had ever seen, and would never see again.
The slimy bastard had tried to cram his tongue down her throat, to give her one final French-style kiss. The onlookers also swore (rather, those who dared to speak his name in an ill tone publicly) that he would have gone much further with the post-mortem rendezvous if he was allowed to. Freddie Williams, who worked at the local post office, told Sanford that, “He would have fucked her if nobody else was there. That’s just the kind of look he had in his eyes.”
Now this man—this monster—was inside of Sanford’s house, looking for something to quench that same sickly set of desires. “Tell me where they are and we’ll get out of your hair, Mr. Pepper. We won’t ask twice.”
“What are you talking about?” Pepper asked, feeling that his mouth was in far worse shape than he originally thought. Aside from his dismantled teeth, he’d need further surgery to correct the damage that had been done. It felt like his lower lip had detached from his face, right by the corner of his mouth.
“The guns, Pepper. We’re looking for the guns.”
“I don’t have any guns.”
Marcus laughed from the other side of the door, pounding his fist three times in repetition. “Kinda looked like you were holding a gun when we first came into the house. You know what they say about men with guns… that they hardly ever have just one of ’em. Where are they, Pepper?” Sanford noticed that he had dropped the “Mister” from his addressing. The politeness, just as quickly as it had come, was gone.
“That was my only gun.”
“Not what I hear, Pepper. I hear you got enough weapons to fend off the whole damn Army. I hear you’re a real paranoid fuck in your old age.”
It was true. His paranoia amplified with every year that passed, especially since his house had been robbed a year ago. They’d only taken his gold watch and his television set, but he vowed never to feel so violated ever again. Lot of good that did. He never took into account the fact that he was a deep sleeper, even though he kept his shotgun right by his bedside. It hadn’t done a lick of good. He was only glad that all his kids were fully grown, with kids of their own, and that his wife had died in the late nineties, of breast cancer. At least they wouldn’t be here to see what happened to their home, and what was surely about to happen to their father.
“Get the fuck out of my house. I know who you are. I know your face,” Sanford said, putting his face close to the door, squinting his eyes as he expected a gunshot blast to come through at any moment. “I know your reputation.”
Silence. Men like Marcus got overly silent when they were about to do something rash. Sanford kneeled in the corner of the closet, taking in the whiff of his old work boots, still covered in mud from the muddy treks around the property, looking for deer to gun down.
“Mr. Pepper,” said Marcus, serene in tone and suddenly polite once again. “Don’t make me kill you and then go looking for the guns. I know you’ve got them. We brought you steaks and booze, as a trade.”
Bullshit, thought Sanford. They wouldn’t trade anything. Men like this only knew how to take.
“We’ll even grill ’em up for you,” one of the other men said. It sounded like he was standing right behind Marcus, probably his number one henchman. “Honest Injun.”
Bullshit.
Marcus spoke again, and Sanford couldn’t help but notice the click of the gun. It spoke much more truth than any of the invaders’ mouths dared to speak. “Listen to me, Mr. Pepper. We’re not here to do you harm. You know that. You old coot, tell us where the guns are. I already said I wouldn’t ask twice, so it looks a lot like you’ve gone and made me a liar. I don’t like to feel like that, you know, like a liar.”
Another click, this one coming from behind Marcus, and then a third click.
Sanford closed his eyes, trying to imagine his life. People always said that a dying person would see their life flash before their eyes right before they passed into the Great Unknown, but it wasn’t happening that way. Try as he might, he could only picture the horrible men on the other side of the door, glaring and plotting. He couldn’t picture his dead wife. He couldn’t picture his kids or grandkids. But he could picture the pain that awaited him, and he could only pray that it would be quick. Painless wasn’t to be expected, but quick would be a blessing.
“Pepperrrrrrrrrr,” Marcus called out now, his voice low and dismal.
“Go fuck yourself,” Sanford Pepper announced, trying to hold his head high even though he was cowering inside of his broom closet.
“Pepperrrrrr,” Marcus repeated, as Sanford heard the door rattle.
A blast of sound crashed in Sanford’s ears. They’d blown out the doorknob, leaving a gaping hole of light spilling on to his face. An eyeball appeared in that hole. Though he couldn’t see anything more than the eye, he knew that the face Marcus made was wholly devious.
“Pepperrrrrrrr.”
The door swung open and Sanford was blinded for a moment. Then came the loud crashing, like thunder inside of a metal box, and Sanford Pepper was no more.
Chapter Twelve
It took longer than expected, but soon enough sleep overtook The Midget Man. His subtle snore was as diminutive as his whole being, just barely a whisper in a world of loud-mouthed men. As she looked up at him, she couldn’t help but think that he was kind of cute when he slept, sort of like a teddy bear nestled inside of a child’s warm bed. Paulie had cuddled many a teddy bear in much the same way that The Midget Man curled up his knees and dozed. He had let his guard down the moment that Annie fell asleep, staring at the dying fire, slumped in his warm chair, probably drunk as a skunk and well fed.
Annie counted to a thousand. As she counted, she kept a monitor on his snore. If it was interrupted before she made it to one thousand, she’d start over again. She wanted to be damn sure he was deep into R.E.M style sleep.
The Midget Man was left as the solitary guard of their piece-of-unwilling-ass trophy, and he was anything but vigilant. It didn’t really matter whether she escaped or not, because what the hell could she do? Report it to the police? No. She had bigger fish to fry, as did they all. It was safe to assume that the world of law and order would not return for some time and when it did, the whole debacle would be wiped away from the slate, as if it never happened. People get crazy in crazy times, the Mayor might say. Or the Governor would pardon all crimes during the storm as being “acts of pure survival.” Both would be applauded for their open mindedness, but neither would have a target on bullish thugs like The Shiny Bald One and his pack of frothy-mouthed wolves. Even if law and order returned in full force, it would be years until these mongrels saw a trial, given the circumstances of processing crimes that happened during the time that God took a snowy white shit on all of mankind.