Bludgeoner: Episode 1
Rotten Earth
Harry liked his job. It didn’t pay much, but what other job could a man find where he walked around in the great outdoors with his dog, enjoying the fresh air and an occasional beer? None that Harry knew of, and that was why he’d been doing it for going on thirteen years.
San Palmo was a decent-sized suburb, the kind of place where very little happened, and that seemed to suit folks just fine. It was nearly indistinguishable from the three towns surrounding it, except for one thing: Lake Conklin. The lake and its surrounding woods only occupied a few thousand acres, and yet it had a reputation for offering some of the nicest camping anywhere in the state. With the summer season about to get underway, the lake grounds would soon be positively crawling with would-be tourists.
Summers were Harry’s time to shine. Patrolling the grounds, clearing out garbage, occasionally helping an amateur camper rescue a canoe that had floated loose in the night, was how he spent his days. In the meantime, his primary role as groundskeeper was to pick up beer cans and scare off the teens smoking weed. Harry didn’t mind the stuff himself, so much as the fires it led to. It had its upsides as well; he enjoyed the look on the kids’ faces when he came running out of the woods at them, screaming like hell.
As he did every morning, Harry rose before the sun and prepared himself a strong cup of coffee while Buck, his white and brown mutt, ate a full can of dog chow from his bowl at the table. The cabin they shared on the lake grounds was small and sparse, decorated with the trophies Harry had hunted and stuffed himself, but it was far more than either of them needed to be comfortable. They had a simple life, and a simple life was a good life.
Harry finished his coffee, tied up his boots and headed out, whistling for Buck to follow. It was still dark out as the two walked the perimeter of the lake, Harry shining his old, metal flashlight over the uneven ground while Buck snuffled the dirt a few yards ahead, occasionally inspecting a spot with passing interest. The lake was calm, its surface occasionally disturbed by small fish darting up to catch a strider on the water’s surface.
Buck led the way, knowing the route as much as Harry. They checked the usual areas where kids always got up to trouble—they weren’t as imaginative as they liked to think—and eventually the pair made their way around to the south end.
That area was the least popular for the campers, and even the teenagers, on account of the dead trees that choked it and the way the ground stunk in parts. But it was still on the grounds, and therefore a part of Harry’s responsibilities, even if it occasionally gave him the willies.
Before long, Harry realized Buck had gotten a good bit ahead, having picked up the scent of a squirrel or some other critter. Buck was a good dog. He could be stubborn as all get out, and he didn’t sit or give paw worth a damn, but he was loyal to the ends of the Earth. No matter how far he wandered off, he always came back.
An owl took flight from the trees above, startling Harry with a cacophony of wing-flapping. He laughed it off, flicking his flashlight over the shaking branches above for good measure. Despite his good humor, his heart was still pounding in his chest at a strong pace, the flashlight trembling in his hand from the adrenaline coursing through his arms. He shook them out as if they’d gotten wet. He was about to call out to Buck when another sound stopped him in his tracks. It came from behind and to the left, as well as much closer to the ground.
A twig breaking underfoot.
Harry spun, training his flashlight toward the noise. The sun was still a good hour away from rising, the faint glow on the horizon doing little to light up the trees. The dead woods were so thick with gnarled branches, like arthritic hands covering their eyes, that even the beam of the flashlight only penetrated twenty feet into the overgrowth.
“Someone there?” He called out, but only the faint sound of crickets answered him. There was enough native wildlife that could have made the noise he’d heard, very little of it dangerous, but he wasn’t about to take his chances. Every so often a local got it into his head to try hunting quail, despite all the signs forbidding it on lake premises, and Harry had no intention of being shot. “It’s the groundskeeper,” he said, then added, “Harry,” as if it would clarify things.
No response. No sounds. He made one more pass with his flashlight to be sure. Finding nothing, he continued his rounds, wondering where on God’s land Buck had gotten off to.
The smell of rotten earth was especially pungent at the south end, the ground soft and riddled with fungus. Lake Conklin once stretched nearly a quarter of a mile further down, directly into the area where Harry now walked. That was until the water dried up, the shoreline receding to its current position. Folks called the land cursed. If one were to believe the talk around town, they would think the devil himself had been hatched from that stinking ground.
Harry whistled for Buck to come back, growing worried when he didn’t see or hear the dog doubling back through the brush at his command. Buck may have been stubborn, but he always came when Harry whistled. Harry quickened his pace until he reached a small clearing marked by a small outcropping of bone-white boulders slick with morning dew.
The old factory loomed up from the darkness, a brick and steel monolith reaching up from the reeking ground. It was a massive building, nearly as tall as it was wide, its outer walls a morbid display of stained brick and dead vines. The business had gone under some thirty years past, long before Harry took the job as groundskeeper. Like most abandoned buildings, it had been left to fall apart, either too expensive or too stuffed with asbestos to destroy.
Some movement low to the ground near one door caught Harry’s attention. He nervously turned his flashlight on the shape, but it didn’t take long to recognize the familiar animal.
“Buck!” He shouted. “Git!” Harry hoped he didn’t have to venture any closer to the factory to retrieve the stubborn dog, so it was a relief when Buck trotted over to him and pressed up against his leg.
“How many times I gotta tell you to stay away from there?” Harry asked, patting him on the side. The dog’s tail was tucked, which struck Harry as strange. Buck was a cheerful, carefree dog, and seeing his tail held tight to his body was a rare sight. “What’s the matter, boy? What’d you find?”
The reply came in the form of light. Something struck Harry so hard in the nose, it was as if the Fourth of July had come early. A brilliant burst of light exploded across his eyes, streaks of yellow and white phosphorescence burning brightly in his vision.
He was on the ground before the pain could register. His nose was broken. This he knew. The hot taste of blood was in his throat, its burning warmth choking him, and he sputtered until he caught his breath.
Nothing made sense. The air hurt to breathe. Silence deafened him. Trees were upside down and bathed in crimson. He blinked twice and realized it was his own blood staining his vision red. An indistinct shape grew smaller and smaller. Harry’s eyes focused long enough to realize what it was: Buck, running away.
Harry picked up his head, hoping to orient himself. Someone was standing over him, someone large enough to block the sky. A deep thump shook the earth next to Harry’s ear. He turned to look at what had shaken the ground so deeply but found only rusted steel. Then the steel raised up, hoisted by the man towering over his prone body.
In the dim light of morning, Harry saw the steel hovering above him, held up high by an uncaring shadow. He was grateful Buck had run off the way he had. It wasn’t a betrayal in the slightest, but a favor; it was a gift to know that his best friend, his only friend, wouldn’t be there to see this.
The steel swung down. Wordlessly. Silently. Harry had but a moment to pray.
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