Two Heads

“We’ve got a problem,” said Jack. “Come with me.”

Jon Stevens had just finished the last of the sweet stuff in the house: a slice of chocolate cake. There wasn’t much left to eat now after the electromagnetic pulse had killed the power grid a week ago. The smoldering remains of the airbus crash that had killed Cody were finally cool enough for people to pick through the wreckage, and the girls had gone to mourn over where their sons had died. Jack gave Pam his 20-gauge shotgun just in case they ran into trouble. Samantha carried a med kit and hiking pole. Jon was a little leery about letting their wives go to the crash site but relented when he saw there was a larger group of mothers going together.

“What’s up, Jack?” said Jon as they checked on Jack’s dogs – a pair of Dobermans - and started walking to the western end of the neighborhood. Jack was carrying his 12-gauge on his shoulder and casually turned his head to see if anyone was close.

“We need to check out a mysterious box someone left in the middle of the last cul-de-sac. One of the older kids told me about it.”

Jon and Jack rounded the curve and saw a small group of people gathered around the object – a suspicious package wrapped in a brown paper grocery bag. It was dark and wet along the bottom of the box and the flies seemed extremely interested in the contents. Someone had written on the paper with a black marker: HOARDERS.

Jack handed Jon his hunting knife. “Slit open the bag and let’s have a look.”

As the paper curled away along the cut, Jon could see that the box wasn’t really sealed. Using the knife, Jon lifted the flaps of the box and immediately recoiled at the stench and the ghastly horror of two human heads looking up at him. Someone vomited. “Jesus, Jack. Is that Chuck and Laura?”

“Pretty sure. Let’s go check their house. Word is gonna travel fast.”

Jack racked the shotgun as they approached the house. As a state cop, he would’ve called for backup but there wasn’t any law enforcement anymore and the radios were fried anyway.

“Notice anything unusual?” asked Jack.

“Uh, not really. I mean, the grass is a little long but so is everybody’s.”

“All the windows are closed even though the power has been out for a week and it’s hot as hell. Everyone else has their windows open.”

“Does that mean something?”

“We’re gonna find out. Go in the backyard and watch the door.”

Jon jogged along the side bushes, taking care not to crush a single marigold flower in its bed, and peeked in the window next to the back door. Boxes and boxes of foodstuffs had been emptied, cabinets ransacked, and supplies pillaged. The one thing out of place was the gasoline can tipped over on its side in the middle of the floor.

The front door was unlocked. Jack opened the door a couple inches and poked the gun barrel in first. As he stepped in, the overwhelming smell of gasoline hit him in the face. He heard the low whump as the fumes ignited and engulfed the doorway instantly. It had been boobytrapped with very fine steel wool stuck to the bottom back side of the door. As Jack had opened the door wider and started to step in, the steel wool came in contact with a 9-volt battery that had been fastened to the rug in the entryway – a gasoline-soaked rug. Jack fell backwards as the flames singed his hands and head – landing flat and discharging the shotgun straight up in the air.

YouTube Channel: Conrad / How to Start a Fire with a 9 Volt Battery and Steel Wool

Jon’s eyes popped open wide as Jack’s shotgun went off. A wave of flames rushed through the front part of the house and rapidly spread in his direction. He barely had time to duck as the windows blew out. Getting to his feet, Jon sprinted toward the front of the house – trampling the marigold flowers this time – and falling on his ass making the turn. The flames were now licking their way out the door and eating away at the front porch where Jack was pulling himself away with his arms.

Jon scampered to the disintegrating porch, grabbing the 12-gauge with one hand, and pulling Jack by the back of his shirt with the other just as the entire thing collapsed in a fiery heap. The entire house was ablaze now, and it would have to burn itself out without water pressure, a fire department, or even a way to call for help.

Jack leaned on Jon as they hobbled back to the street where the dismembered heads were still gawking skyward.

“Well, if the bodies were in there, we’ll never know now,” said Jack. “Thanks for hauling me outta there.”

“Sure thing. What the hell happened?”

“Boobytrap of some kind. I heard it go off. Dang foot got caught when I tried to back out.”

Dozens of people were showing up now to watch the house burn. Jack decided to leave the box with the heads and Jon helped him limp home. It would be dark soon and the ladies should be back from their hike out to the crash site. Jack waited until they were out of earshot before whispering what Jon suspected.

“Whoever beheaded Chuck and Laura is probably gonna kill again,” said Jack. “They left the heads to be found and tried to kill whoever came into the house.”

“They left a message too,” said Jon. “They may be targeting people who have extra food.”

Jack and Jon could see the last few ladies from the crash site group walking to their homes as twilight fell. It was taking Jack longer to walk now – his ankle was swelling considerably. Instead of heading to the front door, Jack peeled off to the side nearest the fence and called for the dogs. Then he whistled for them. But the Dobermans never came.

“Pam must have the dogs inside,” said Jack as he hobbled toward the front door. Jon followed and nearly ran into Jack when he tripped on something. It was the 20-gauge shotgun he had given Pam earlier.

“What the hell Pam, you know better,” said Jack as he handed the shotgun to Jon.

Grumbling his way toward the front door, Jack suddenly froze. If there had been enough light left, Jon would’ve seen the color drain from Jack’s face. There was another box wrapped in a brown paper grocery bag on the front porch. The same message was on the brown paper: HOARDERS.

Jon again took out the knife and began slitting open the paper. He didn’t recall catching a glimpse of either Sam or Pam as the mothers returned to their homes. Was Sam even safely at home right now? What happened that caused Pam to leave the shotgun in the front yard? Please God, don’t let there be heads in this box. The paper fell away, and Jon slowly slid the knife under the flaps of the box.

“Wait,” said Jack. Jon swallowed the nausea that was rising in his throat. Jack pulled out his flashlight and quickly checked around the box – and noticed his own front door was ever so slightly ajar. If Pam was inside, no light sources were being used. “Okay. Open the flaps.”

Jon lifted the flaps as Jack pointed his flashlight into the box. The heads of Pam and Sam were not in the box. But the heads of Jack’s Dobermans were side-by-side looking glassy-eyed at one another as if knowing they would never see their master again. Jack let out a loud breath, both cursing and crying as he was relieved in not finding Pam’s head – but incensed at the utter cruelty in the slaying his beloved dogs.

Jack slowly moved next to his front door. Obviously this dirtbag killer was inviting him to enter by leaving the door cracked open. He put his nose up to the opening. Gasoline.

“Good chance this perp has set the same boobytrap,” said Jack.

“Okay but let’s think a minute. He managed to set up the other two heads and boobytrap the house without anyone noticing. Now he’s come to your house because he knew you would check out the suspicious box. When he gets here…”

“No one’s home.”

“Right. But it takes time to kill two dogs and saw off their heads, box them up, and boobytrap a house. And why set up the second box for you to find…”

“If I was supposed to die at the first one.”

“Which means he was watching us at the cul-de-sac for a while.”

“And Pam?”

“Probably surprised him. Dropped the gun fighting him off as he dragged her inside.”

“There’s a good chance he’s still in the house. This time I’m going in the back way. Shoot anything that comes out that front door.”

Jon chambered a round and nodded.

Jack doused the light and moved catlike to the back door. The doorknob wouldn’t turn. Still locked. Good. Jack silently slipped the key into the lock and went in. The kitchen was clear except for a gas can – about half full by his estimate. Only three bedrooms and a bathroom left. He started clearing the master bedroom when he heard something being dragged across the wood floor near the entryway. Peeking around the corner, Jack could make out a large figure.

“Hold it right there douchebag!” said Jack leveling his shotgun across the forearm holding the light. The perp was dragging an unconscious Pam by her neck with one arm while holding a long, bloodied knife just under her chin. Jack had no clear shot. “Let her go!”

“Not a chance, pig,” said the perp. “Drop the gun or I treat your wife the same way I treated your dogs.”

Jack slowly lowered the gun while putting himself in between the large figure and the back door. “Alright I’m putting the gun down now.”

The perp continued inching backwards toward the front door keeping Pam as his shield. He hadn’t had a chance to finish setting up the boobytrap because this stupid wench showed up back home. Not to mention there was no time to grab the good stuff he knew this cop had stashed. And now his hostage was starting to wake up.

Jack kept his distance as the perp used the knife to widen the already cracked open door and slowly took a step backwards. He dropped Pam and turned to run only to have the barrel of a shotgun forced into his mouth.

Jack decided not to wash or repaint the door.