by Greig Beck
She kissed him and went out but left the door to his room ajar. Kenny lay in bed facing his window. He could hear something, he was sure of it—a calling or singing, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard in his life. It took away the pain in his head and replaced it with…magic.
He drifted off and smiled at the things it whispered to him, that it told him to do, and what it said he could become.
He knew then that everything was going to be fine.
CHAPTER 14
“Creepy kid,” Shelly said out of the side of her mouth.
Mitch glanced at her. “Don’t talk about our patients like that. Especially when they’re feeling unwell.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Gloves, hoodie up over his head, and dark sunglasses at ten years old? And screaming when the light got in his eyes. Yeah, unwell is an understatement. What was up with him?”
“Shelly,” he warned.
“Oh, come on.” She smiled. “I have to type up his records anyway, so you might as well tell me now.”
He sighed, knowing she was right. “Young Kenny Hatfield, nothing serious, just some sort of flu-like virus, I presume. Rash, dry mouth, sensitivity to light. Bed rest for a few days, plus I’ve given him a shot of B12, and some general antibiotics for now.”
She nodded. “Don’t forget the holy water.”
He glared at her and she held up her hands. “Okay, okay, last time I crossed the line I had to do about 50 years’ worth of photocopying in a month.”
He chuckled. “That’s what happens when you set fire to a doctor’s surgery. We have 100 ways to make you suffer.”
She scoffed and grinned back at him.
Mitch suddenly had a thought and turned to her. “Hey, what copying?”
She waved an arm around. “Everything, all of it. All of Doctor Wainwright’s files. He didn’t trust them being all at the surgery anymore.”
“All of them?” He stood.
“Yeah.” She frowned. “He must have told you.” She winced. “Oh…sorry.”
“Did you happen to copy the contents of the old cabinet? The antique wooden one in his office?” His eyes gleamed.
She nodded. “I think so.”
He crossed to her. “Where are they all now? Are they cataloged?”
“The library storage facilities. And yes, I’m very good at filing,” she replied.
“Then I have a job for you. Right now,” he said quickly.
She groaned.
“I want you to go to the library storage facility and retrieve the box or boxes of copied material just from the old antique filing cabinet. Can you do that, please?” he beseeched.
She shrugged. “Sure, no problem.”
*****
Mitch sat staring at the pile of brown, nondescript folders on his desk. None of them were labeled with names or places, but instead there were simply dates and sometimes numbers.
But inside were notes, and pages and pages of the small, tight writing style of Doctor Ben Wainwright. Some had Polaroid photographs, and all mostly dated from early 1977.
Many were headed: Angel Mine Syndrome with a case number, and Mitch tried to get his head around the story they told, especially considering the man had told him to his face that there were only a few minor instances of infection and skin irritation.
But the reality was, back in 1977 there was some sort of horrifying outbreak that primarily afflicted the children. Over 20 boys and girls fell ill to a condition that drove gross deformities in the skin, muscle, and skeletal structures and also seemed to affect their thinking, making them exhibit psychotic behavior. At first, he thought the children were incongruously labeled: angel children, or just, angels.
Until later.
The first case was of Billy Allison who didn’t live that far from where Mitch lived now. His mother Mary had brought him in with a rash on his lower back. In a few days, it had progressed to significant crusty extrusions that coated most of his body and much of his face.
There was a shadowed and grainy color Polaroid that showed a small figure in bed. Mitch squinted and was sure the eyes were yellow—not like jaundice yellow, but almost a glowing, nocturnal stare.
“Jee-zuz,” he whispered.
Some of the other pictures of different children were impossible to comprehend maybe because of the poor camera equipment used. But as far as Mitch could make out, many didn’t look like children anymore at all, but instead some sort of creatures assembled from bony plates and tree bark. He grimaced at the next images—and some were worse.
Now he understood where the “angel” term had come from. A few of the kids had things growing from their backs that resembled branch-like structures but spread wide like wings. Mitch blew air between his pressed lips.
“Holy Hell,” he whispered.
There was nothing Mitch knew of anytime or anywhere that could do that to people. Even severe mutagens that scrambled DNA and cell structure acted slowly, and usually ended with the body simply corrupting with cancerous cells, not looking like it was trying to remake itself…into something else.
Wainright had been understandably overwhelmed and had called in the authorities. The CDC arrived first, and then some other government types that Wainright noted he never found out who they really were.
The children, all of them that could be located, had been evacuated, and from what Mitch read and understood from the notes, none of them ever returned. Not them, or their families.
Where did they go? Mitch wondered.
Wainright blamed himself for informing on them, but what else was he supposed to do? He had no chance of curing or even diagnosing what was happening to them.
Mitch had so many questions, but the only person who could have answered them had just taken his life.
He felt sorry for old Ben Wainright, keeping this to himself all these years. He just gave thanks he’d never be tested like the old man was.
Mitch paused at the thought. He’d just seen young Kenny Hatfield with a skin rash.
Not the same thing, he thought confidently. But then… He might just check in on the kid tomorrow.
CHAPTER 15
Marshal Simmons wiped his hands on a rag and jammed it into the back pocket of his blue coveralls. The sun was down now, the last of his mechanics had gone home, and he was getting ready to shut up shop.
There were a few vehicles waiting for some minor work, but only a few. Business was getting tough. The new cars these days were basically computers on wheels. They hardly ever broke down, and you didn’t put your head under the hood to see what was going wrong—you simply plugged them into some other computer thing and let it run a diag-nos-tic over the entire system, from its air-conditioning to the transmission. Then the damn thing told you what work it needed.
He sighed. There wasn’t enough in the kitty to afford one of those things, and so for now, he relied on the old-timers like himself to bring in their aging autos.
Marshal didn’t have any kids to leave the garage to, so when he retired or died, the garage would die with him. That’s progress, he thought glumly.
The smash of glass from the rear of his workshop snapped his head around.
“Who’s there?” He stared into the darkness.
The sound wasn’t repeated, but a sixth sense told him he wasn’t alone anymore. Marshal walked softly to a workbench and grabbed up a long, silver wrench and then tiptoed between two cars toward the dark rear of the shop. He immediately regretted not flicking the overhead lights back on, but that’d mean backtracking now.
There came a skittering sound, and he wondered whether there were raccoons in the building. If one of his mechanics had been leaving food in the bins, he’d skin ‘em alive.
“Garn, git!” he yelled.
The workshop remained silent.
Marshal had two options: he could flick on the lights and spend hours doing a search of the workshop for some critter making mischief in here. Or he could leave it until tomorrow morning when the sun
was up.
Easy decision.
“See you tomorrow.” He tossed the wrench onto a bench top and turned away.
The thing that landed on his back was damn heavy, and hard, and no damn raccoon. It felt like it was made of rock or wood as its fingers or claws dug into the meat of his neck while hissing like a boiling kettle.
“Get offa me!” he yelled while waving his hands over his head.
His flailing left hand got bit, crunching the bone and making blood spurt. Marshal was forced to the ground and wailed as the thing then started to drag him, its claws digging deep into his flesh like daggers.
He skidded across the floor and managed to catch sight of himself in the glass doors—it didn’t help; the thing that had hold of him was basically human-shaped, but shorter, and it moved weirdly like an insect, with skin that was all horny and rough.
“Help!” he yelled.
And it was enormously powerful as it dragged him as if he weighed nothing. It leaped up onto a bench and went straight out through a broken window, taking Marshal with it.
“He-eeelp!” he yelled again. But no one came, no one heard.
My garage is dead now, he thought as he was quickly drawn away into the dark woods.
CHAPTER 16
Harry Reith held up the bottle of mineral water. The label showed the Eldon Spring Water brand and also had the words “super health tonic” in green calligraphy blazed across images of a crystal-clear lake, waterfall, and trees filled with rainbow-colored birds. The bottle’s glass was also green to hide the pale green tinge of the liquid, but as they had called it a health tonic, it didn’t really matter.
“Looks good.” He turned to nod to the assembled marketing, sales, and technical teams. “I’d buy it.”
He twisted the top and heard the hiss of escaping gas. He sniffed and then shrugged. “This is where the rubber hits the road.” He lifted it to his lips and sipped. He smacked his lips for a moment and then sipped again, longer this time.
He lowered the bottle and grinned. “This is good. Just a hint of lemon that combines with whatever shit was in there to give it quite a unique flavor.” He chugged down some more. “We might be onto a winner here.”
Reith took a few steps toward the window that looked out over the car park as his mind worked. Branding and advertising got people to buy their first bottle. But it was up to the flavor factor to bring them back for the next one.
He spun back. “Okay, let’s go with it, high scale. I want full production, ten thousand units per day to start. We’ll do a sample population test right here in Eldon, and if it works, we’ll move it out nationally to all our regular big buyers.”
Pete Coughlin grinned from ear to ear. “You got it, boss.”
“And get to work on some slick ads we can run nationwide. This could be the next big thing. And we don’t even need to add caffeine or sugar—it’ll be the healthiest drink on the market.”
He tipped the bottle up and drained it. “This is damned good. Well done, everyone.” He headed for the door but paused. “I want it in everyone’s icebox by week’s end.”
*****
Just before dawn, the morning deliveries were being made to the many cafes, restaurants, convenience, and corner stores in Eldon. In among their usual deliveries of milk, soda, and alcoholic drinks was a crate of brilliant green bottles.
On the side of the crate were the words “Eldon Spring Water – Super Health Tonic.” The samples were free, and before noon all had been given out to the public or at least tasted and approved by the shop owners…
Who all made follow-up orders—the new spring water was a hit.
*****
Harlen Bimford carried the crate into his shop and placed it into his cool room. He pulled out several bottles, stuffed way too many under one arm, and carried them out. When the heavy door closed behind him, he held one up to examine it. He liked the color and the labeling.
He nodded his approval. “Real interesting.”
He’d place several in the glass-fronted ice box and also one on the counter as a display—you know, for sales purposes. After all, as the ole saying goes: eye level is buy level. He chuckled.
As he carried the bottle, Buford, his old hound got under his feet. Harlen tripped and one of the bottles hit the ground, popping its lid so half its contents spilled over the floor.
“Dang it, Boo. Go on, get out now.”
The dog’s ears drooped, and it got belly-low to the ground. It looked up at him with one of those crushed expressions only a dog could conjure.
“Aw, I’m sorry, boy, you’re okay.”
Buford immediately recovered his sappy dog grin and wagging tail. Harlen placed the remaining bottles on the counter and snatched up the now half-empty one from the floor. He took a sip.
“Ahh, that is good.” He wiped his mouth. “Oh well, guess I get to sample the stock after all.”
He turned to see Buford lapping up the puddle, and he laughed softly.
“You never need a mop when you got a dog.” He sipped again from the green-tinged bottle.
CHAPTER 17
“Alfie? You up there, son?” Hank Bell waited at the bottom of the attic steps, staring up into the dark void.
Alfie was Big Alf to his friends, even though he was still only ten years old and to his dad would always be little Alfie, the kid with the chubby face, toe head, and cheeky grin.
The kid was a bit of a scatterbrain but friendly and lovable, and that was why it was odd that he had been spending too many days up in the attic by himself for it to be normal.
Come to think of it, Hank hadn’t even seen the cat for a few days either. Probably no real problem. After all, Patches might just be up there keeping him company; one thing about felines was they loved the dark mystery of a basement or attic.
Hank had thought nothing of it when early on Alfie had moved some bedding stuff up there, and he thought he was just making some sort of fort for him and his friends to hang out in. But then he hadn’t caught up with Benjie, Kenny, Gemma, James, or any of his usual posse for ages.
“I’m coming up, okay?” Hank grabbed the railing and began to haul his bulk up the steep steps. He puffed after just a few; too many beers and not enough exercise had slowed him down, and he knew it.
His head came above the attic floor and he hung there for a moment. It was gloomy, and his eyes found it hard to adjust to the darkness. And he could see that the globe overhead had been removed.
Why would the kid do that? he wondered. Weren’t they supposed to be afraid of the dark—Hank swallowed—like he was now.
Dummy, he thought. He should have brought a flashlight. He contemplated going back down to get one when a small mewling noise brought his head back around.
“Patches, that you, kitty?” He came up a few more steps. “Alfie?”
He licked lips that had suddenly gone dry and noticed the weird smell. It was bad, and he wondered if the kid was relieving himself instead of using the toilet. He’d catch hell if he was.
Hank started to come up a few more steps and placed a hand on the attic floor but jerked his hand away. His fingers came away sticky and he saw something dark on them. He held them to his nose, sniffed, and his brows came together.
Phew, he thought. Bad, but at least it wasn’t shit. He wiped his hand on his pants.
“Alfie, where you at, boy?” He stepped up into the attic and cast around for the removed globe to at least give himself some more light.
There was an object the size of a baseball and also scraps of something covering the floor, and he bent lower waiting for his eyes to adjust a little more. He pulled back, baring his teeth in revulsion—the mounds were scraps of black and white fur, and the thing he thought was a ball was their damn cat’s head.
From out of the darkness, the thing leaped onto his back. Hank fell under its weight and immediately things like needles fixed to his upper shoulder near his neck.
Rage, and fear for his son, filled him. If whate
ver this thing was had killed the cat, maybe it had also attacked his son.
He rolled over, fighting. Whatever it was, it was hard and made a furious animal sound as it ripped and tore at his flesh.
Hank managed to throw it off and the thing thumped brittlely on the floor then skittered away into the darkness.
He flipped over and scrabbled to his feet. “Alfie, where are you?”
His instincts were to flee, but he lumbered further into the dark, knowing his son was the priority.
Hank felt the warm wetness spill down his side, and his hands stung from the sharp spikes or thorns on the thing. Anger fueled him, and he’d either find his son or stomp the animal that attacked him until it was nothing but a busted shell.
Something dropped on him from the ceiling beams and he felt talons piercing his flesh. It hissed like a snake and clung to him, stabbing at his body, piercing his flesh in dozens of places from the thorns or spikes again.
Hank went down on his back this time and clung to the thing even as it shredded his skin.
In the light from the open door to the downstairs, something glinted that was hanging around the horror’s neck. Through blood-filled eyes, Hank could make out what it was, and his world came crashing down.
It was a Saint Christopher medal.
Hank then knew where Alfie was. He dropped his hands, surrendering because he didn’t want to fight it anymore.
CHAPTER 18
The days rolled on and soon became weeks. Things were quiet in Eldon—no more tremors, no more kids coming in sick, and the Hatfield boy, Kenny, that he had treated as well as his family, had suddenly moved away.
The only thing that changed was a new soda appeared in a few iceboxes, but otherwise, there was nothing but peace, sunshine, and smiles.
Mitch had treated Karen for an ingrown toenail, and though he was busting to ask her out on a date, he knew that it wasn’t good form to ask out patients, especially while treating them.