Ephemeral Creatures by Gregory Mattix

Author:Gregory Mattix [Mattix, Gregory]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-07-20T04:00:00+00:00

***

“The fuck you want, man?” Rex demanded an hour later. “You still pissed over getting rolled up? Heard you did eighteen months in the joint. No big thing, man.”

“I disagree,” Hrym said. “For twenty months, I was precluded from my sacred duty.”

Rex lay trussed up shirtless and barefoot in the dirt beneath a scrub oak. The two were out in a field many miles from civilization. The thing Hrym liked best about the enormous expanse of Texas was that finding remote places where his work wouldn’t be disturbed was simple.

“Look, man, I’m sorry, all right? You want cash, blow, whatever, I’ll hook you up! Wait, you like crank, right? I got you covered, man. I got a nice stash back at my place worth ten Gs—you can have the whole thing!”

“No, prison cured me of my meth habit. I use something better tailored to my needs these days.”

“Oh.” Rex’s desperate pleading subsided a moment as the wheels turned in his narcotic-addled brain. “Well, I’ve got connections, man! I’m sure I can get you hooked up with whatever you need. Just let me make a call.” He checked his pants pockets.

“Your phone is lying alongside the highway about a mile outside of Odessa.”

Rex paled a bit. “W-whatever—no big thing. Look, let me borrow your phone, and I’ll make a quick call and get you squared away—”

“Shut up. I should’ve left the tape on.” Hrym went to the back of the Tahoe and removed a coil of rope he’d bought at a hardware store back in Albuquerque two days earlier, along with a hatchet. He slipped the latter through his belt.

“Whatchu doin’? Come on, man! You can’t do this!”

Hrym ignored him, throwing a length of the rope over the scrub oak’s sturdiest bough. He then rolled Rex over, facedown, put a knee in his back, and released the electrical cord. The scrawny junkie struggled but to no avail. Hrym retied Rex’s wrists above his head. With the hatchet, he chopped the unused length of rope, which he used to secure Rex’s ankles to the trunk of the tree. When he was finished, the snitch was suspended, facing the ground.

That complete, Hrym went back to the Tahoe and cued up the Abaddon’s Call song “Sacrifice,” a twelve-minute heavy metal masterpiece. He cranked it loud enough to drown out Rex’s whining, his adrenaline surging as the song’s slow buildup turned to a thunderous guitar riff. As he walked back, he hefted the hatchet. He needed the heavy blade—Wolf’s Tooth would be unsuited for that type of work.

Rex let out a pathetic squeal of fright at the sight of the gleaming hatchet. The crotch of his pants darkened, and urine dribbled off his toes into the dirt. He whimpered as Hrym took a moment to savor the pathetic rat’s fear.

“You always were a crazy motherfucker,” Rex snarled in a brief flare of belligerence. “Just put a bullet in me and be done with it.”

“Oh, no. I’ve got something special planned for you, old friend. Ever

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