Page 49 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The first blow wasn't clean. It landed with a sickening, wet thwack that was more bone than meat. The axe bit deep into Duffy's shoulder and neck, getting stuck in the collarbone. Duffy's body jerked, a final, convulsive spasm. A thick, dark spray of blood shot out, arcing through the air and splattering across the grinning face of the clown backdrop. The smell hit me then, hot and coppery, mixing with the scent of damp earth and rust.

Maverick grunted, putting his boot on Duffy's back for leverage. He was wrenching the axe free with a wet, sucking sound. "Hold still now," he muttered.

He raised it again. This time, he aimed better. The second blow was a brutal, hacking CRUNCH as the blade shattered the spine and tore through the remaining flesh and muscle. More blood fountained out, drenching the ground, pooling black in the dim orange light. Duffy's head lolled to the side, held on by just a few stubborn strings of sinew.

Maverick wasn't done. He wasn't an artist like me; he was a demolitions expert. He brought the axe down again, and again, and again. Thwack. Crunch. Thwack. Each blow was a wet, percussive beat in the dead air. Blood sprayed with every impact, coating Maverick's arms and chest in a fine, red mist. I watched, unmoved. It wasn't gross. It was just... work. It was the messy, necessary business of being a Knucklebone.

Maverick stood there, breathing heavily, the axe dripping a steady rhythm of blood onto the ground. He looked down at the headless corpse, then at the axe in his hands, and then he let out a long, satisfied sigh. It was done.

The severed head had rolled a few feet away, coming to a stop in the dirt, its eyes staring up at the bruising sky. Maverick walked over and nudged it with his boot. "Well now," he drawled, bending down to pick it up by the matted, bloody hair. "Looks like you lost your head, Sheriff. Can't have that, now can we?"

He held the head up, looking at its mangled face. Then, with a completely straight face, he started thrusting his hips, grinding against the severed head like it was a dance partner. "How's that feel, Duffy? You still got that authority?" he grunted, his voice a low, guttural parody of passion. After a few thrusts, he burst out laughing, a wild, unhinged sound. He stopped, and then started swinging the head around by the hair like a lasso.

I just shook my head, a small grin playing on my lips. Sometimes Maverick was completely out of hand, a wild dog off its leash. But whatever. It was his nature, and it kept things interesting. "You're a damn idiot," I said, my voice flat.

On the way out of the midway, we spotted the sheriff's cowboy hat lying in the dirt, knocked off during the struggle. Maverick stooped down, picked it up, and plopped it right on top of his own head covering it with blood. He tilted it back at a carefree angle. He was a perfect mix of a redneck clown, a terrifying, ridiculous sight.

"Alright," I said, grabbing the sheriff's limp body by the arms. "You got the ugly thing. I'll get the body."

We started walking back towards Maverick's trailer, a macabre march. Maverick led the way, the severed head swinging from his hand, the sheriff's hat perched on his masked head.

We reached Maverick's workshop, the old circus storage barn he'd claimed as his own. He called it his "House of Whorrors," a name that always made me roll my eyes. We dragged the mess inside, dropping the body on the dirt.

The walls were lined with his "art": twisted sculptures made of scrap metal and bone, jars filled with unidentifiable things suspended in cloudy liquid, and a series of crude, pornographic drawings he'd done on pieces of scrap plywood. Add in the usual freakshow decor. In the corner, a mannequin with a real human skull for a head was dressed in a tattered wedding dress. In the back, behind a makeshift curtain of lace, I could see Lilly, his massive python, shifting in her enclosure.

Maverick tossed the sheriff's head onto his main workbench, where it landed with a wet thump right next to a half-finished mobile made from small animal bones and bottle caps.

"Alright," I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. "I'm headed to check on our girl."

Maverick just nodded, already lost in his world, picking up a rusty saw and eyeing the sheriff's corpse with a look of intense concentration. He was in his element now.

I walked out into the cool night air, pulling off my sack. The silence of the holler is a welcome relief after the noise of the midway. The moon was high and bright. I headed towards Rory's trailer, my footsteps quiet on the dirt path.

I pushed the door to the trailer open, the door groaning. The moment I stepped inside, I saw her. Rory was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she looked mad as hell. Her eyes were blazing, her jaw set in a hard line. But as I got closer, the anger in her eyes shifted, replaced by a flicker of concern. Her gaze dropped to my shirt and hands, which were still spattered with dark, drying blood.

"Who's blood?" she asked, her voice tight. "Or another deer?"

I stuttered a little, caught off guard. My mind raced, trying to come up with a good lie. "Well, unfortunately," I said, my voice a little too high, "you have to come with me. Your presence is required."

She shot to her feet, backing away from me. "No! I'm not going anywhere with you!" she snapped, her voice rising with panic. "Don't touch me! I don't want that blood on me!"

She was still wearing my flannel shirt, the fabric hanging off her small frame. I saw that Amos had been in here. There was a plate of half-eaten food on the table and a small pile of clean clothes folded neatly on a chair, but she hadn't changed. Of course not. Only Maverick and I had the keys.

I took a step towards her, and she flinched, but she didn't back down. I was turned on, seeing her again in my flannel, seeing how beautiful she was, even though she was a total mess. Her hair was a wild tangle, her face pale, but she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I saw faint red marks on her skin, like smeared blood, but I didn't ask about it. I just assumed it was Maverick. He got carried away sometimes.

I was obsessed with her. I wanted to touch her, to feel her skin under my hands, to taste her lips. I wanted to make her mine.

I ignored her little outburst and walked over to the chair where Amos had left the clothes. I picked them up, holding them out. It was a simple black tank top and a pair of black shorts. The tank top had a single, grinning pumpkin printed right in the middle. I grunted in approval. It was fitting.

I walked over to the cage and slid the bolt open. Her eyes blazing with defiance. I stepped inside with her, the space suddenly feeling even smaller.

I reached and unhooked the chain from her. "I'm going to unchain you so you can get changed," I said, my voice low, my eyes locked on hers. "But I'm gonna be right here, so don't try and do anything stupid."

She just glared at me, her hands on her hips. "Or what?" she shot back. "You'll bleed on me too? Real scary."

I didn't rise to it. I just walked over to the little makeshift closet in the corner of the trailer and grabbed a clean rag. I picked up the pitcher of water from the table and poured some over my hands, rinsing off the worst of the blood. I threw the rag under the water, getting it wet, then walked back to the cage. I held the wet rag out to her so she could wipe her face up.

She snatched it from my hand, her fingers brushing mine. "Turn around," she demanded, her voice sharp.