I need to find a phone. He looked around. The old farm house was huge, with low, open beam ceilings. To his left, there was a hallway that led to the kitchen. He could make out the familiar red walls. To the right, there were stairs. 

Arkin went right first. He passed the living room entrance, peering through the archway to see a small TV, a worn leather couch, and books scattered everywhere—but no phone. He turned for the staircase, his hand on the railing, his foot took the first step. Underneath his weight the old wood creaked. He expected Cain to be at the front door; silence. 

At the top of the stairs there stood three doors. All shut. Arkin ventured towards the closest door in the narrow hall. It was dark. No windows and lightless, he felt for the knobs. They were all wobbly and loose. He scanned the rooms. They all seemed too small and none had a phone. One was the mothers, that wasn't hard to tell. All was clean and flowers in vases, while the other was under a thick layer of dust and left as if children still occupied it. Arkin had a feeling it was probably Abel's old room, one that he had shared with Cain as two beds were against opposing walls. The third was merely a storage room. 

He hated the silence. He felt like he was missing something. Just like he was missing the phone. There had to be a phone. What about emergencies? Without much hope, he did another sweep for a phone. Then he saw something. Something underneath one of the blankets .... His brows furrowed as he craned his neck to see better without getting too close, but he couldn't make it out. He crept closer. It's probably just a cat, he told himself when he reached out to peel back the faded bedspread.

Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .

He stumbled backwards, arm knocking over a lamp and shattering its bulb. It was a body. Young, dried, and very much decayed. It laid with its head on the pillow and arms folded on its chest. It still wore clothes—it still had fragments of skin. His stomach heaved. The eyes were the most disturbing. In the sockets they sat, shriveled up like dried prunes.

Bright rays of headlights flickered across the walls. Cain was home. 

Arkin staggered away from the bed. He clenched his fingers in his hair and struggled to focus. There wasn't much time to absorb his thoughts, the front screen door slammed close. He went to the slatted closet door and pulled it aside. A jumble of clothes hung from hangers and were piled on the floor.

He fell to his knees and started to sift through old things. It took everything to not look back towards the corpse in the bed. Focus. Shoes, gloves, shirts, jeans, socks, a handgun—it was tangled in a camouflage jacket. He picked it up, looking over the revolvers body with a quick inspection. One bullet. He never used a gun before, but he had done a lot of never's in the past twenty-four hours. Pulling on a pair of jeans and the camouflage jacket, that was when Arkin heard him. 

Cain was on the stairs. 

"Mama?" He trudged up the steps. One heavy foot after another. "Mama, you up here?" 

Akrin's body was out of his control. He trembled and started to hyperventilate. This was it—now was the time to shoot him dead. His hand clutched the revolver. Focus. He heard Cain walk down the hall, open his mother's door, call out and receive no answer. The next door opened. He was so close Arkin swore he could smell his stench. Diesel and hay.

Could I get out a window? He wanted to check, but then there Cain was. He was right there. Arkin could see his shadow sprawled across the area rug.

He's going to find me.

It isn't a question; it's a fact.

He's in the room with me.

I can see him.

Clutching the revolver in both hands against his chest, Arkin made the bold move to step behind the bedroom door he had left open. If they were kids and this was a game of hide-and-seek, surely he would be the first found.

Through the doors slit between its hinges, he watched with a held breath. Chances were, Cain could hear his heartbeat right now. He moved past the door and stopped. He was so close now. So close. Distracted by the unnerving sight of his brother had been a misfortunate find that worked well in Arkin's favor. Now. Do it now. Don't think. Just do.

In one breathlessly fast motion, Arkin rammed the muzzle up against the back of Cain's skull and hissed. "Move and I'll be burying you in that other bed."

| | |

They sat at the dining table. Cain was tied to a chair and Arkin sat beside him, revolver laid out in front of him. His head felt as though it was going to burst at its seams. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face, wincing internally at the swollen bruises that he touched. It was the bad blood. He remembered learning something about that in science class; blood types. He also remembered one particular side effect — death. I need a hospital. Reaching forward his hand sluggishly pulled the revolver closer.

"Where's your landline?" He asked.

Cain just stared.

"A cell phone, have one of those?"

Nothing.

Arkin lifted the gun and reached across, pressing the barrels head into the soft fatness of his cheek. "I won't ask again."

"You ain't gonna shoot me Abel." Cain's beady eyes met his.

"I'm not Abel," he pulled the hammer down, "my name is Arkin."

Cain scoffed. "You only got one bullet."

"I only need one. Now where's the damn phone?"

Nothing.

Arkin cracked the revolver against the side of Cain's face. It was a lot of effort to put weight behind the strike that barely moved the large burly man who chuckled at pain. His taunting laugh echoed through the thin walled farmhouse.

"Mama's gonna let me kill you. She's gonna serve you up real nice, and when the cops come sniffing around we'll even let 'em have a taste of you, you little basta—" BANG.

Click. Click. Click. He pulled the trigger as many times as the old piece would let, even though one bullet released. Cain had the air knocked from him at the impact of the gut shot. It was fatal, but he'd stay alive for hours. That was what Arkin wanted. He nudged the barrel against Cain's head, he was limp, but his chest rose and fell. Thick red liquid seeped from the wound.

It wasn't no easy task lugging his body outside. With a fever settled in him and sweat drenched, Arkin slumped against the gate. He lifted his arm up to rest on the pig's trough. Their water was tainted pink from bacteria growth, but Arkin didn't care. He dipped a hand into its coolness and rubbed it along his burning face.

He had dragged two bodies outside. The mother's and Cain's. He thought it was common courtesy to see that neither of them went to waste. The pigs in the attached pen squealed and fought in anticipation. They smelled the blood.

Arkin hauled himself to his bare feet and ambled over to Cain. His head was slumped onto his mother's cold stiff shoulder when he slapped his fuzzy covered cheek, repeatedly. He stirred with a groan and yelped like puppy when Arkin shoved his fingers into the bullet wound. Cain threw his head back, withering in manure.

"Wake up, sleepy head." Arkin mocked while wiping his fingers on Cain's shirt. "That's a good boy. I want to make sure you're awake for this."

He looked down to the man who started to wail at the sight of his dead mother. The way he tried to grab at her body to pull her close should have sparked some sort of emotion — some sort of guilt — especially when he climbed up on the fencing and pulled at the gates release. The pigs bursted through. Cain screamed as he was engulfed in the mouths and trampled under the weight of a dozen pigs. His screams were lost in the chaos of the feast and Arkin sat there watching with the biggest grin on his battered face. 

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