Reeling. A Scene from ~ THE FISHING TRIP by Ey Wade. There's a thin line between hero & monster #thriller

    Author: Ey Wade Genre: »

    Durham drove the F150 sixty miles into the woods at thirty miles over the speed limit with the windows down, the cool wind aiding the cigar smoke to swirl through the trucks interior, the lyrics of Teardrops by Massive Attack blaring in the silence of the dark cool night air. This was his theme song. It made him think about his sister and his promise. He loved a good challenge and tonight he had a big one, even if he was the only one who knew it.

    The cabin to which he was driving was now filled with the sickest single group of sadistic perverts he had ever come across. At the moment they were sitting in a warm fully equipped building watching their homemade child porn on an 82 inch flat screen television, drinking and eating and having a laughing good time.  Unaware it would be their last hurrah. The fools trusted him when he said he was going to run into town for more supplies in much of the same way those little children trusted them. They lied to their families about their planned weekend, thrilled in the knowledge they wouldn’t be disturbed. They felt secure in their open perverted frolicking because their wives and children were either on a trip or pretty much engaged somewhere else for the week.

    Durham laughed out loud, at least the families would be safe from the coming backlash and unknowing of how their lives were about to change for the better.

    Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he turned off his music as he drew nearer the location of the cabin. From his vantage point he could see the television through the huge pate glass windows and was sickened over the events occurring on the screen. The sight of the sorry bastards sitting on the couch and chairs laughing and cheering through the windows fueled his intentions to end their life. They deserved a quick and fitting punishment. Adjusting the gloves on his hands and covering the soles of his boots with plastic bags Durham slid out of the truck.

    He would have loved to be able to walk in the room swinging a machete and cut their heads off. He wanted to see the fear in their eyes the same way he could see it in the child’s, but he didn’t want to get too close and ruin the detailed plans he worked so diligently over.  His plans were precise. He would do whatever was necessary to cover his tracks and get the hell on out of there.

    Creeping to the side of the house he kept his dark clad body low and near to the ground so as not to be seen through the large uncovered windows. With the television blaring and the lewd suggestive cheering going on he knew there wouldn’t be a chance of them hearing him and yet he moved as quietly as possible. At the meter providing the natural gas to the house he quickly shut off the flow, gave it time for the pilots in the house to go off and then turned the gas back on full force. At the back door of the mudroom, Durham quietly crawled inside the house. In the corner standing in preparation, stood the large can filled with gasoline.

    In silence he moved through the dark quiet kitchen and splashed the gas across the flooring from the entrance to the kitchen, throughout the mud room, outside of the door and all around the house before putting the empty can back in its place by the water heater, this time laying it on its side as if it had fallen over.

    At the front of the house Durham used a rock and solid piece of stick to puncture a hole in two of the tires of the only vehicle parked on the property, the black Escalade used to transport the men to the cabin. It didn’t matter if any escaped the building alive because he wasn’t going to let them leave the woods in the same manner. Hell, there wouldn’t be a way for them to escape. He'd purposely left earlier in the night through the back door because he had locked the gated entrance of the front door.
    Hoping to have given the gas enough time to permeate the premises, Durham went back to the mudroom. Rolling and lighting a couple of pages of newspaper from the waiting stack by the door; he threw the first of the flaming balls of retribution into the kitchen as far into the middle of the room as it would go and the second into the mud room, the quick ignition of the fuel almost catching him as he ran from its path. He successfully took four or five long steps before the first explosion destroyed the silence. He ran.

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