Ashley Thomas Sheikh

Chapter I

Time to Rodeo

Sometime in the 1990s

Raven County, Kentucky

“Daddy, can we take him to Strawberry Fields now?

I’m gettin’ tired of feedin’ him...”

When you kidnap people, tie’em up, and torture’em in your garage, it changes your whole view on life.

Your whole worldwide view is fuckin’ changed.

Even the way you look at garages is fuckin’ changed.

Probably forever.

Rhonda stared at the garage in front of her.

Every time she was out drivin’ and passed somebody’s house, she’d wonder if they might be hidin’ and torturin’ people in their garage, too.

She knew those thoughts would stay with her.

She’d never be able to look at garages the same way again.

Her right hand trembled as she lit her cigarette. Birds chirped their afternoon songs in the nearby forest, but to her they were soundless. Her face was ashen, expression serious, eyes unblinking. Standing before her was the most important garage in the whole world—at least to her and her family.

She brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled, letting the smoke hang in her mouth, taking comfort in the taste: slightly sour, rich and earthy—with just a hint of truck-stop coffee.

The garage stood separate from Daddy’s house, surrounded on all sides by little white ghosts, jack-o’-lanterns, vampire bats, and buck-toothed wicked witches. A few even hung from the roof. Puttin’ on that many decorations seemed a tad bit overkill now, almost like they’d been tryin’ to mask the reality of what they had to inflict upon the asshole inside. There could be no maskin’ the violent necessities of their Quest for the Temple, though—all the lipstick in the world couldn’t stop a pig from yellin’ “Oink!”

(“no, please stop, I don’t know any—”)

These days, the door of the garage, off-white and ominous, stood out the most to her. Sucked her attention in like a damn magnet. Almost like it was tryin’ to tell her something.

But what?

She wasn’t sure, but something bigger than her, bigger than her family, and certainly bigger than the pieces of shit they kidnapped and held inside.

Something real fuckin’ big.

She took another drag of her cigarette.

When was the last time they’d even opened the door?

She tilted her head up to the afternoon sky and blew the smoke toward the clouds.

It was probably when they brought him in and tied him up.

Nowadays, they only opened it when they brought in new ones and gave’em the Family Welcome.

She flicked ash on the ground and took another puff.

They always screamed a lot then.

During the Welcome.

(“please don’t do this!”)

(“y’all don’t have to do any of this!”)

(“i don’t know anything about any fucking temple!”)

The walls of the garage seemed to absorb their screams, like the mop she used to soak up their blood, and sometimes when she looked at a garage, any garage, she couldn’t stop hearin’ those screams—like she couldn’t stop the blood oozin’ out their mop.

Her right hand trembled again.

Bits of ash floated down to the gravel.

Yep, my worldview on garages has a hundred percent fully fuckin’ changed, she thought, bringing the cigarette up for another puff.

Probably for the rest of my fuckin’ life.

A feeling of detached awe washed over her as she reflected on the nature of perspective—how one action or event can so quickly change your perspective on something as simple as garages for the rest of your damn life.

She considered the perspective of the dipshit inside.

Do you feel different about garages now, too?

Now that you been in one for so long?

Her gaze drifted down to the gravel driveway, then raised back up as she scratched the back of her neck and ran her fingers through her wildly cropped blonde hair. She took a long, hard drag of her cigarette, the smoke enveloping her lungs like a warm blanket.

Not like it matters, though…

You ain’t ever gettin’ out…

…’til we take you to Strawberry Fields.

She blew the smoke out in rings, remembering how an older boy taught her to do it when she was twelve. A thought occurred to her: What if the piece of shit could somehow sense her starin’ at him?

Maybe bein’ tied up, blindfolded, and gagged for so long increased your other senses tenfold, like how blind people just knew that somebody was nearby watchin’em. Not that she’d ever actually like that, of course—come to think of it, she’d never even met a fully fuckin’ blind person before, though she very much wanted to (so many questions). But she’d seen enough of’em on TV that she reckoned bein’ blind or havin’ a few of your senses lost for long enough would probably, most likely, make all your other senses that much stronger for it.

Seemed logical enough.

Can you fuckin’ sense me lookin’ at you, you little piece of shit?

Squinting her eyes, she tried to mentally pierce through the off-white door and read his thoughts—to see him all tied up in there.

To see him sufferin’.

You’re probably thinkin’ of how to get outta there...

The door seemed to get bigger the more she stared at it.

That’s what I’d be thinkin’ if I was you…

Her eyes widened.

But good fuckin’ thing I ain’t you.

An odd buzzing sound caught her attention—it sounded like a bumblebee at first—but it grew sharper, more high-pitched.

She looked around and realized the sound came from within.

It whined harder, louder—a sonic assault on her very being.

That sound—that fucking sound again!

Her right hand trembled so hard she almost dropped the cigarette.

The garage door was directly in front of her nose now and all she could see was the white—that terrible off-white of the door and she couldn’t see him and she couldn’t see herself and she couldn’t see anything except the door, the white, the off-white and the whining got louder and louder and it hurt her brain it hurt her mind it hurt her insides and she felt sick.

(what are you doing, rhonda?)

(what are you and your family doing?)

Ripping her gaze from the door, she turned away and hunched over, coughing and spitting on the ground.

The whining sound faded, but the gravel in the driveway spun and melted into a swirling mixture of gray and white puddles of color. For one terrifying moment, she lost herself inside those colors (what are you doing, rhonda?), but soon enough the shapes of the rocks solidified and provided something clear and still she could focus on.

Still hunched over, she brought her trembling right hand to her mouth and mustered up just enough lung power to take another drag of her cigarette.

Gotta remember what the doctor said…

(breathe)

(breathe)

(focus)

Focus on something peaceful…

(breathe)

(breathe)

(focus)

She looked at the trees to her right.

(breathe)

(nature)

A calm fell over her.

(focus)

(calm)

The sick feeling faded.

(breathe)

(peace)

The tremor in her hand eased.

(focus)

(strength)

Beside her, two sparrows hopped from branch to branch—either fightin’ or tryin’ to mate, couldn’t tell. Either way, the smaller sparrow kept tryin’ to get away from the bigger one. She wondered why that smaller bird didn’t just fly far away. Maybe it couldn’t. Maybe it was tethered to this area, just like she and her family were now tethered to this land, to the garage, to the assholes they kept inside it. Or maybe it just hoped the other sparrow would give up soon.

Maybe the piece of shit we got tied up is thinkin’ like that...

She felt the urge to look at the garage again.

Maybe he thinks we’ll eventually give up, and just let him go...

She bent back up and kicked a piece of gravel.

I bet they all thought that…

She turned back towards the garage.

She was okay now.

But especially him.

Everything was okay now.

She could look at it now.

We’ve never kept one alive as long as him...

Of course, there was always the possibility that poor AB had already given up—that he’d already accepted his fuckin’ fate.

His.

fuckin’.

fate.

She took a drag of her cigarette and released the smoke through her nose, wondering which was the case. The smoke drifted in front of her eyes, obscuring her view of the garage.

They called this one “AB,” short for “Alabama Boy.” Didn’t remember his real name—not that it was important anymore, not that it was ever important—but he hailed from Alabama and “AB” was short and easy to say.

They did that with most of’em now.

Gave’em little nicknames.

How long had they been keepin’ him in there? Two months? Three months? It was warmer when they’d brought him in…that night of his Family Welcome…

*

“No...”

“Please...”

“What are y’all doin’?”

AB begged and screamed as the burly man dragged him across the gravel driveway with a rope.

“We got a big one this time, didn’t we, Daddy?” asked Rhonda. The burly man grunted.

AB tossed and turned, squealin’ like a pig and leavin’ a speckled trail of blood across the gravel.

Rhonda ran inside the garage and pushed the button to open the door.

The hammer and the strawberries were ready.

She smiled.

*

What month was it back then?

June, July, August… Couldn’t remember.

Time flies when you’re havin’ fun.

Don’t it, motherfucker?

She brought the cigarette to her lips, drawing the smoke into her lungs, savoring the slight burn tickling her throat.

This one hadn’t cried yet, though.

Oh, he was scared shitless, alright—that was for sure. She’d never shook hands with him but imagined it was akin to shakin’ hands with a glass of water. Truly a wet puddle of a man. The type of guy that jerked off with a condom on and then guilty about it.

She kicked a piece of gravel toward the woods.

So why hadn’t a single damn tear came out his eyes yet, then?

It was just the darndest thing.

They had all kinds of theories as to why. Daddy had said it could be he had real tiny tear ducts, some fuckin’, biological reason as to why he couldn’t cry. Could be there’s just people out there who, no matter how sad or scared they get, just don’t cry. Don’t mean they’re especially strong or nothin’–could be like Jell-O inside—just so happens they don’t cry. That’s all.

She flicked some ash to the ground.

How could someone that didn’t cry even exist, though?

Especially when they’re scared to death and hurtin’ real bad?

She shook her head.

Made no sense.

Oh well.

We’ll see if you end up cryin’ or not, AB…

She kicked a piece of gravel at the garage door.

Little pussy-ass bitch.

She stretched her arms out to the sky, smoke from her cigarette drifting across the face of the afternoon sun. The October air felt just right. Chilly, but not too chilly. Just cold enough to remind you that Halloween lurked around the corner. Rays of orange sunlight illuminated the leaves of the forest behind the garage and the open field beside it.

They took good care of AB, all things considered.

Fed him. Gave him water.

Cleaned his bucket on a fairly regular basis.

Even gave him leftover pain pills when he complained about hurtin’ too much. One time he got a real high fever so they just kept on givin’ him more and more pain pills and it eventually went away. “Don’t need no doctors,” Daddy had said. “Just need Advil and Tylenol and shit. Cures most things. Most of the time.” He was right—and even though AB didn’t deserve nothin’ good they did for him (like the free medical care they provided), they took good care of’em anyway. They were good people, after all. Daddy even washed him with the hose every couple of weeks or so.

Never kept one over winter before, though. Never needed to. Probably get too cold in the garage come wintertime. Now if they bought him a little space heater and turned it on in there that might keep him warm enough, but it’d run Daddy’s electricity bill too high. Maybe just dress him real warm? Put a Christmas sweater on him or something. Or shit, maybe he’s already cold at night? Could buy him a Halloween sweater at Walmart, a black one with one of them big orange pumpkins on it.

But nah, it ain’t that cold yet.

He’ll live.

Probably.

Just to be on the safe side, she made a mental note to discuss this later with Daddy. Wasn’t worth AB dyin’ yet—they still kinda-sorta needed him alive for a bit longer, even though everybody was gettin’ real tired of feedin’ him. Daddy still felt he had one more Clue inside him, though—another Clue to the Temple. At least, that’s what his dreams told him.

And they didn’t argue with Daddy’s dreams.

“Maybe we should be real nice to him, and trick’em into tellin’ us what he’s hidin’!” her little brother Zachary had said.

“Nice idea, numb nuts,” she’d said. “Who’s gonna be dumb enough to believe us suddenly bein’ nice to’em after we kidnapped’em, tied’em up, and tortured the fuck out of’em?”

“I sure wouldn’t be,” she’d said.

“Not me.”

Later on, she’d realized that tactic might’ve worked on a few of the others, though. It might’ve worked on FB—the one they had before AB and GB, but after MB. (MB was the one who escaped—that fucker.) FB was as gullible as they came—without a doubt the easiest for her and her little sister Taleiah to kidnap. Almost like if you were out huntin’ and the deer came straight up to ya and licked your gun...

*

FB’s mouth hung open as he stared at Taleiah.

He looked like he might drool.

“You so little... and s-s-small...” he said.

He licked his lips and fumbled with the buckle on his belt.

“S-so… So…”

He swallowed.

“...in-innocent lookinnn’...”

Rhonda waited inside the closet for the right time to strike. They’d learned the hard way that timing was everything—you fuck up the timing, shit hits the fan real quick.

“I’m g-gonna take r-real good c-care of you, l-little girl...” he said.

Within his bulging, googly-ass eyes, she saw that same desire she’d seen in so many of the others—

He unbuckled his belt and pulled at the button on his jeans.

—that same desire to both worship and consume her little sister.

Taleiah’s voice held just above a whisper. “Lemme take care of you first, get you real hard...” She sauntered towards him and ran her finger across his chest.

“...Is that okay, mister?”

Rhonda had taught her to always ask questions real innocent-like, the way all the pieces of shit liked her to ask questions—like she ain’t never fucked before.

“Ohhh, I’m-I’m already real haaard...”

He inhaled his words as he spoke them and Rhonda sensed this one might be an easier takedown than the rest.

“Well...lemme get you harder...” Taleiah said, guiding him with her hand to the bedside facing away from the closet.

Rhonda readied her lasso and gripped her cattle prod.

Time to rodeo.