#the hogs

This one's basically a redraw of this

“You don’t believe me?”

“Vinny,”

Anger made Vincent's fingers stutter as he signed.

"You won't take my word for it? Why? Why, Bo? Do you trust him more than me? I'm your brother."

Bo took Vincent's hands in his, shushing him. "You are my brother. Nothing or no one would change that, but - tsk - listen to yourself. I know havin' people over is a new concept to you, but don't you think you're getting a li'l too carried away?"

He was looking at him like a raving lunatic, with that oh-poor-you frown wrinkling his brow. Vincent's breath hitched. He balled his fists and shook his twin off.

Bo regarded him sternly, like a silly misbehaving child. "Vincent," he warned.

Vincent grabbed the back of his chair and threw it back. It clattered against the tool chest.

"See for yourself, then." His one blue eye bulged in its socket. "Watch for the signs."

Bo watched him storm out of the garage and melt into the shadows beyond the pumps.

Darrell, a murderer? Where on earth did he get that?

Bo shook his head, raised his beer bottle to his lips, stopped. He glanced in the direction Vincent had gone.

Lesley Reinhart was settling into his sixties. Without much difficulty, one must note. If anything, he was in better shape than he ever was.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a muscular body that could put any recent police academy graduate to shame. Before he got out of his car - a sleek Porsche picked out of the city impound - he brushed back his hair and adjusted his tie.

His jaw clenched when he heard a wet squelch after he put one foot out. Mud. On his newly polished dress shoes.

It wasn't like he didn't know there was a growing hurricane, thought Hernandez as he trudged through the mud-strewn forest floor. He never understood how people grew vainer the closer they got to kicking the bucket.

The two men followed the well-trodden path to the shack the local townsfolk said was home to the last person who saw the missing teens.

They came upon the place. A sad brick and wood structure with an askew porch, which was lit by an amber light bulb. A loud humming told Hernandez the place ran on generator power.

Reinhart raised his voice. "Daniel Ray Williams?"

The scraggly boy who was chopping firewood stopped and lowered his ax. He took a cautious step back as the two men approached.

"Tread lightly, Moses, for the ground you walk on is holy ground… or some shit." A man, hidden by the shadow and fog, made his presence known. He sat on a rusty white-painted metal chair on the porch, smoking a hastily rolled cigarette. "Let's back you up, gentlemen," he said, "Off my property."

"Mr. Williams," began Reinhart, "my name is Lesley Rein-"

"Earl."

An impatient smirk tugged at the corner of Reinhart's thin lips. "My name is Lesley Reinhart. I'm a detective with the NOPD. This is my partner Detective Hernandez." He flashed his badge.

"Figured," said Earl, unimpressed.

"We're just here to ask Daniel Williams a couple of questions," Hernandez explained, adopting a more reasonable tone.

"That's my kid brother." Dan had made his calm, collected way up the steps and was now standing next to Earl. "Got a stutter. He don't talk much on account of it. You wanna know anythin', you ask me."

"This is about Brody Morgan and Carter Green," said Reinhart.

"Yeah, I heard about 'em. Got a dozen or so bluecoats sweeping the woods yesterday with dogs and whatnot."

Reinhart persisted. "We were hoping to get a statement out of Daniel, about what happened at the gas station."

Earl folded his arms over his chest. "Well, if you already know he was at the gas station, I'm sure you know what them boys did."

"We were also hoping he'd tell us about the attendant who was working there the day Brody and Carter disappeared."

Earl tipped his head and raised one wild eyebrow. "Why, he a suspect?"

Reinhart grew more impatient. "I'm afraid I can't divulge that."

"Level with me here, hoss."

"We'll be asking the questions here, Mr. Williams."

"Dan a suspect? Am I? Mighty convenient for you to have a bunch o' dirt-poor hillbillies to pin it down on."

"Respectfully, sir," piped up Hernandez, "Everyone who was within the area during the crime's occurrence is, and nothing was stolen-"

Reinhart shut him up with an authoritative wave of the hand. "Mr. Williams, I can charge you with criminal misdemeanor for refusing to cooperate," he barked.

Earl smiled. "I can also legally shoot you for trespassin', and so long as I claim fear of bodily harm the law is on my side."

It was at this point the two realized that the object leaning against Earl's chair was a shotgun and not a cane.

"We ain't got nothin' for ya, gentlemen," he said definitively. "Be a little more willin' if you'd done the same for every person that's disappeared from this mountain these past few decades, not just for city slickers whose daddies got dough."

Reinhart, seething from the insolence, turned away and marched back the way they came.

Hernandez braved Earl's hostile stare and placed his card on the damp porch. "Should you change your mind," he said. "Give me a call."

Earl leaned forward and read the name printed on the expensive cardstock.

Angel Hernandez

When the men had gone, he brought out his cellphone and sent a warning message to Skulk.

They're comin' up to the trailer, boy. Make yourself scarce.

Skulk had a habit of stealing Darrell's hoodies. They smelled like him and were warm, which was great for the weather they currently had going.

He got the message just as the detectives broke through the bushes. They narrowly passed him, sitting in a thicket as he was. Jebediah the little piglet, was sleeping soundly in his lap, remnants of a treat still hanging from his snout.

Skulk watched the detectives inspect Darrell's empty trailer. The older one kicked some of the sweet potatoes the naughty boars had dug from the vegetable patch. Skulk opened his and Darrell's conversation, filled with lewd little nothings they had sent back and forth. He typed:

On a more serious note, darling - there's pigs snooping about the trailer and not the usual kind.

The younger detective brought out a flashlight and peered through the tinted windows.

Had he locked the door?

Carefully shifting to his feet, though still remaining crouched, Skulk unsheathed his knife. Vibrating from the thrill of a possible kill, he waited. The second those cops opened the door, he would break cover. He could take them. One after the other.

The bigger man made him hesitate, but he was going to try. He'd left clothes there - unwashed clothes and tools of the trade. They all tried to be careful, but who's to say for certain the detectives won't find anything?

"Try the door," said one of them.

Jebediah stirred. The underbrush gave as Cristabella, grunting, arrived to take her brother home. Skulk bit his lip and held her mouth shut.

Incensed, Cristabella shook Skulk off. Her attention shifted to the strangers, and began to growl.

"What was that?"

Bellowing, Cristabella charged right at them. She bowled through them, knocking them clean off their feet. She was at them again, ramming her cutter tusks at their torsos. Clothes were shredded, yells rang, but the men were quick to get on their feet and they eventually got away.

Skulk watched, the squealing piglet under his arm, as Cristabella snorted in satisfaction as if to say Come back with a warrant.

—

Ava, Bo, and Darrell liked to hang out at the garage. Winds were picking up, blowing from the coast. Establishments were closed. Folk were told to remain indoors.

Ava and Darrell sat together while Bo tinkered with the engine of a sedan. He'd been trying to make it work for the past week. He couldn't fathom what he was doing wrong. The out of key strumming Darrell was doing on Ava's beat up acoustic wasn't helping.

Fed up, Bo unstuck his head from under the hood and winced at the two.

"Darrell, Darrell," he groaned. "You're never gonna learn to play with those clumsy fingers. Give that dang thing back to Ava."

Ava giggled and took her guitar back. "Don't listen to him," she told Darrell. "You'll get it, but won't you sing with me a while?"

She positioned her willowy fingers on the fretboard. Darrell returned her pick and she began to play.

Once the intro passed, Darrell followed through. The way the two friends' voices melded together was ethereal. Bo stopped in his tracks.

You go down just like Holy Mary

Mary on a, Mary on a cross

Mary on a, Mary on a cross

"Your beauty never ever scared me" Surprised, Ava looked up. She'd never heard Bo sing before. His voice was clear and cool, but higher in pitch than his speaking voice.

All three of them sang the last lines together, voices blending into a lovely harmony.

"Didn't know you had that in you," Ava teased.

Bo smirked and turned away. "Stick to singing, Darr. Leave the music to Ava."

To thwart the attention from himself, Bo turned up the radio. They listened attentively to another weather update, which was followed by a local news report.

Meanwhile, at Devil's Peak, the search for missing college students, Brody Morgan and Carter Green, continues. Police authorities race against the oncoming hurricane to uncover as much information about the boys' current whereabouts.

Brody Morgan is the son of media mogul, Arthur Morgan. Detective Lesley Reinhart assures the public that the New Orleans Police Department is doing everything in its power to find the boys.

Bo's ears burned. Three paces away, Darrell continued to sing softly to Ava's guitar, but he could see it: a tremble of the lip, a glassy faraway look in the eye. Guilt. Worry.

Darrell appeared to have not heard, but Bo knew he was listening closely.

That night, Bo roused Vincent out of bed, like a spectre at his bedside. They came to a shaky agreement behind the house.

"If we do it now, it'll be the end of it."

"Wait. I'm not too sure. Let me talk to him."

Vincent scoffed - a harsh nasal puff. "You think he'll admit to it? Idiot."

Bo grabbed him by the shirt. "You don't move til I say you can."

—

All was quiet and gray the next day. Percy sat at the dining table, her fingers clacked busily on the keyboard as she wove a new chapter. She peered over her glasses at the amassing clouds from the window. "This must be what they mean by 'the calm before the storm'," she remarked. 

Darrell was sitting in the chair next to her, poring over one of the books she had written. "You made Halloran look like Bo," he noted with an amused smile. 

"I did." She watched him fondly. She reached over and pushed a stray strand of hair from his face. "You know what, maybe I should give Halloran a sidekick." 

Darrell looked up, brown eyes gleaming. 

"I think I have an idea on what he might look like."

Darrell put down the book and rested his chin on her shoulder. He squinted at the walls of text on her document. "That's a whole lotta words, Momma," he sighed. 

Percy smiled, feeling rather proud of herself. "No big feat, to me. What do you think so far?"

Darrell gave it a good, careful read. He sighed softy, blown away. "Shucks, I dunno how you do it." 

There was an urgent hammering at the window. Michael stood outside. He held a grubby baseball in his hand. 

"Be right back, Momma," said Darrell. 

"Hey, Mikey," he said at the door. "Don't think it's good weather to play catch in. Alia won't approve." 

Michael stared up at him, lips sealed. He tilted his head and raised the ball again. His posture hinting that he wasn't asking. 

"Ok." 

Darrell took the ball and the glove he had brought. In their game, Darrell was the only one who did the throwing and catching. Michael would hit the ball as hard as he could with a bat, and watch as Darrell struggled to catch it. Peak entertainment. 

"Further?" Darrell called from down the street, the House of Wax behind him. 

Michael kept pointing at him to go further. He was going to knock the ball right out of town. Darrell reeled back and pitched. The bat hit the ball with a deafening thwack!

It rode the air like a comet. Arching high, Darrell knew chasing after it was futile. Then, it dipped, whistling, and crashed through one of the lower windows of the House of Wax. 

The glove slipped off of Darrell's hand. Michael turned on his heels and let the bat clatter on the street. In case they incurred Vincent's wrath, he was detaching himself from the incident. 

Darrell picked his way through the wasteland of discarded car parts, cut through a crack in a wooden fence, and entered the House of Wax. 

The door swung right open and he crossed the slightly dusty threshold. He was greeted by a main room glowing with yellow lamps, filled with intricate carvings that he knew for a fact were all wax. In an odd trick of the eye, the bulbs seemed to fill the room with shadow more than light. The result was dismal and bleak. 

Darrell's thoughts strayed unhappily as he eyed the sculptures. It was as though the misery stored in that room was seeping into his bones. Distracted, he went from one display to another, admiring the detail of each handiwork.

Vincent was so talented. He and Ellie went together perfectly. If only he could understand what he had done that made him so angry. 

There was a rapid clicking on the floor. He recognized it at once as the padding of an animal. Jonesy, tail wagging and mouth bearing the rogue ball, watched him from a safe distance. 

Darrell dropped to a crouch. "Hey, girl! Good job! Give it here." 

Jonesy tucked tail and ran. 

"Hey, no! Come back!" Darrell gave chase and stumbled from one room to another.  Jonesy girl, no! I'm not supposed to be in here."

He came upon the back of the building, past an elaborately decorated dining room, and into a doorway that led to the basement. 

There were sconces in the walls, housing steadily burning candles. Embedded among these were different faces, each with a unique expression. Darrell followed the faces upwards and looked overhead. Spanning the ceiling, her eight spindly legs astride the stairway, was Arachne - Horrid, freakish, and beautiful all at once. Face smooth with youth. Bosom full and immodestly bare. Eyes hungry. Head held high with pride. 

"What is this place?" muttered Darrell. 

Bark! Jonesy had dropped the ball at the bottom of the stairs. 

Darrell crept down the steps. As he was reaching for the ball, Jonesy's jaws snapped at his wrist and she made off with the ball again. He walked into the room. It felt like a furnace. Great, big cauldrons of wax hung on chains over large fires. Knives, saws, and sculpting tools hung on the walls. A bloodstained steel table stood in the middle of the room. 

But worst of all, there was a figure - human-shaped - suspended in a macabre iron contraption.  

Darrell was pulled to it by some sick fascination. He thought he could see the glimmer of an eye under the rough wax, blue and bright. He stood inspecting the thing, heart hammering. 

Its fingers twitched, and Darrell screamed. 

He spun around and found himself face to face with Vincent. There was a knife in his hand. 

Darrell interposed the table between them and made a run for the stairs after circling it twice. Vincent tried to grab him by the hair but missed. 

Darell ran right into Michael in the dining room. The taller man stepped in and locked Vincent's wrist in a crushing grip. 

Crack! 

Vincent had landed a punch on Michael's jaw. Michael recovered almost immediately and was able to grab the blade of the knife just as it was about to pierce his side. Blood dribbled onto the floor. 

He changed his hold on the blade, used his free hand to hold Vincent's arm, and knocked the weapon out of his grasp. 

When he looked back, Darrell was gone. He was sprinting down Main Street, sweating, panting, heart hammering. He understood it now - why the town had felt so empty, why the girls had tried to keep him entertained indoors at all times, why the sculptures looked so real. 

Lester found him sitting on the curb sometime after dinner. "Y'alright there, buddy?" he inquired cheerfully. 

Darrell did not respond. 

Lester sat down beside him. "I, uh, heard what happened." 

"S'Mikey ok?" 

"Yep. Didn't feel a thing, Alia said. He's been patched up." Lester took a crumpled pack from his pocket and lit a cigarette. 

"Ya in on it, Les?" 

Lester did not respond.

"Y'know," Lester began, "What we do out here, we been doin' it a long time. An' ya know, you can get used ta anythin' if you're 'round it long enough. It ain't easy to put it down."

He blew the smoke out and brought Darrell's attention to the cigarette. The red glowing tip flickered as he waved it around.

"It's like quitttin', ya know?" he explained, "Ya can't just do it." 

Darrell was nodding. He knew how that felt. 

"Besides, this is my family," Lester added, "I love them. More than anythin'."

Darrell had begun to think of them as his family, too. It had felt too good to be true. 

"Here's one for ya. Those missing kids, d'you do that?"

Darrell glanced sideways at Lester. There was no judgment in his eyes, no hate like in Vinny's. His expression was open, sincere. 

"D'you kill 'em?" 

Darrell resigned himself and said, "Killed more than just them." 

"Are you gonna stay with us?" 

"Can I?" 

"Sure!"