The Swamp (Part 19)

Hendricks had arrived at the Campamento Central eight months before on an eight passenger plane that the small time regional carrier, NatureAir had donated to the prison system. It was an older plane, but well maintained and relatively comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you can expect to be when you’re trussed up in chains and manacles, a black sack over your head.

The chains were not really necessary since he had been tortured so badly at the police station by Rosella. Soon after that he was dragged out, driven to the cow pasture that doubled as a landing strip, fastened into one of the forward seats and sent on his way. He was the only passenger on board and he was fading in and out of consciousness. Hendricks appeared so harmless that they only sent one guard along to watch him.

His mashed face was a bloody mess. His nose had been smashed in and both of his cheekbones had been bruised, if not totally broken. His jaw hung loose, dislocated, but miraculously most of his teeth remained intact. One or two of his ribs were badly bruised and he gasped when the plane hit pockets of turbulence. Hendricks tried to remain as still as possible and especially he tried very, very hard not to cough, but this was just way too difficult and he continued to have painful, wracking heaves throughout the bumpy, two hour flight.

Hendricks sensed rather than felt that they had traveled some distance over water, but he was not sure of anything anymore. His disorientation was complete and at some point during the night he passed out.

When he awoke he was in his cell. El Campamento Central, but he was not to learn that until later.

For many hours he lay on his hard pallet, wishing he were dead and trying not to move. When one of the guards came by and slid some disgusting food through the hole in the door, he was too utterly destroyed to try and get it, even though he was seriously hungry, not having eaten in several days since his arrest.

He tried to go over the last few days in his head, from the minute he left his house with the carbon blade in his pocket, enraged, with murder on his mind. Sure, okay, he was drunk. But who the fuck would not have been on a legendary binge with the bullshit that that cocksucker Blandon had done to his wife? Fuck that shit. The more he drank the more he knew in his heart and with no hesitation that Blandon had to ante up for what he had done. What he continued to do.

It was around eleven in the evening when he drove up to Blandon’s villa. He noticed right away that there were no guards. He should have been suspicious that there were no dogs barking and that all of the lights had been off. If he had not been so pissed off and fucked up, he might have figured something was not completely square.

But all he saw was Blandon’s Range Rover Sport in the driveway of the super expensive townhouse and his only thought was, the bastard was home, and that was simply all he needed to know.

Besides, he had a plan. He would get in and get out. It would be quick and no one would ever be the wiser. Hendricks would even make it look like a robbery, maybe even take a few things, make a few bucks, and why not, he thought, fuck that prick.

Oh yeah, and of course, he would leave no evidence. Nah, no one would ever suspect him. Why would they? Hendricks had never had any business with the man at all and in fact had only seen him once or twice driving through town or buying crap at the local Do-It Center.

The house was locked so he broke one of the window panes to get in and hurried inside. No alarm sounded and he walked in without incident. He looked through the downstairs open room, realized there was no one there and walked softly and silently up the stairs. The carbon blade felt just right, tight and secure in his hand.

Hendricks’ military training had taught him how to move without being heard and he floated like a phantom through the upstairs hallway, reaching the master bedroom door, which he could plainly see was ajar. In retrospect, he wished he had not been so inebriated. Apparently alcohol dulls the Spider Sense as well as all of the others.

After pausing and hearing no movement, he toed the door open and ducked inside, letting his eyes adjust slowly to the low light. Though there was a full moon that night, the clouds were thick and their shadows moved with the wind, blocking and unblocking his vision, casting bizarre, moving shapes into the silent bedroom.

He could see, however, that there was definitely a shape in the bed, most likely a person and probably, he assumed, that cock sucking sleeping beauty Blandon himself.

Though he was tipsy, Hendricks approached with extreme caution.

He took the carbon blade out of its sheath a bare whisper of leather against honed edge.

Something wet squished beneath his moccasins and he realized with a sickening certainty that he was standing in some sort of unknown goo, some sticky puddle of who knew what.

Disgusted, he moved to the side of the bed and as he did he thought he caught a glimpse of some black stains on the bed and across the comforter.

At that precise moment, the clouds parted and the full, sudden and brilliant light of the moon shone in through the window, spotlighting the figure on the bed.

The woman, he recognized immediately as Mrs. Blandon. Kitty, he recalled, was her name, though how in the world he had pulled that fact out of his bunghole, especially at that particular point in time, and as decidedly stoned as he was, was beyond him.

The late Miss Kitty lay totally, unashamedly naked, legs akimbo. He noticed that her pubis was shaved.

Her once lovely head was staring up and tilted way back. Her mouth had frozen in a mask of death that made her look almost as if she were laughing.

Snap and the room lights came on.

Hendricks pulled back, shocked to see the bloody gash on her neck. He spun around, flailing and half blind from the flash.

Something heavy, metal and wickedly solid cracked the back of his skull, plunging him into blackness.

to be continued

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