by Dion Baia
Tatum entered the room with the revolver in her hand. Her head was much lower than Walt had anticipated. When she saw them behind the door, she didn’t scream but she certainly jumped. Breathing a sigh of relief, Walter grabbed the revolver out of her hand and lowered his gun.
“Jesus, Tatum, didn’t I tell you to stay in the goddamn car?”
She had placed a hand over her heart as if she was trying to calm down. “Jesus Christ on the cross, Walter! You scared me half to death. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you and your new friend here.”
He replaced his gun in its holster and looked at her in astonishment.
“You know this guy?” the caretaker said to Tatum.
“Wha—? You would shoot me?” Walter stared at the revolver he took away from her, her words sinking in. “What the hell are you doing outta the car?”
“Hellfire,” the elderly watchman jumped in. “What the heck are you both doing here?” Walter put his hand up and the man rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, one question at a time.”
They both looked at Tatum, who suddenly felt all eyes were on her. “Well, I uh, I went into the woods cause I had to, you know… Nature called. I did have a bit to drink tonight.” The old man nodded understanding. Then it clicked with him.
“Wait, you mean booze? You both have been drinking on the job?”
Walter ignored him and kept his attention firmly on Tatum, who continued. “Anyway, while I was in there, a car pulled up, a big old sedan, with three heavy-looking guys in it. One got out and started to check out the Merc. Then another car pulled up behind theirs, with more torpedoes in it. And I tell ya, they didn’t look like the law. So that’s when I hurried over here. It was hard to stay quiet in the dark and in heels, Walt!”
The caretaker looked down at her feet.
“Three guys? What guys?” Walter asked.
“Now look,” the old man said, shaking his head and walking over to pick up his shotgun from the floor, “I don’t know what’s going on or who you work for, but I wanna see some identification. And a good reason why a colored and a white woman, who are both dressed like they’re putting on the Ritz, are out here at this time of night, or I’m gonna call the state troopers, so—”
“Two cars showed up, eh?” Walter frowned.
Car engines roared outside, and Walter dashed toward the window.
“Yep, those guys,” Tatum said.
Two four-door sedans were making their way down the overgrown driveway.
Walter took Tatum by the hand and darted toward the window, where they both dropped to the floor to stay out of sight.
“Ah, more of your friends, I suspect!” the elderly man said.
“Not our friends, old-timer, now get down and turn that damn lantern out!”
“Hey, that’s private property and someone is gonna have to clean that up! I’m going to get to the bottom of this right now,” the caretaker protested, his lantern still on.
From what Walter could make out, neither vehicle had any emblems, hood ornaments, or anything else that would allow him to denote their make or model. Both touring cars had three men within. The first screeched to a halt on the tall, muddy grass parallel to the front of the house. The other car picked up speed and headed around the back, plowing over the high bushes and weeds.
“Shit!” Walter yelled. “This is why I don’t bring civilians on a job.”
“Don’t shout at me!” Tatum said, her grip on Walter tightening.
The elderly caretaker raised his lantern and headed for the front door. “I’m calling the state troopers. I’m tired of you young people not respecting private property!”
“Hey, wait a second!” Walter yelled but the watchman had already opened the front door and was heading out onto the front stoop.
“Damn it! Get back in here!” Walter’s warning went unheeded.
The old man hobbled down the front steps. “What the hell is going on here?! This ain’t the parkway, you know, this is private property! You guys from the bank? They still trying to get us farmers to sell our land, eh?”
Walter smashed the bulb swinging in the air, extinguishing the overhead light. He looked on, crouching down low behind the window while pushing Tatum’s head down and out of sight.
The back suicide door opened and a man exited the first car. He had a Thompson submachine gun in his hand. The driver slid over to the passenger window and produced what Walter thought was a Browning Automatic Rifle, commonly known as a BAR. He pointed it out of the window toward the house.
The other car was stopped by the back door of the house. Two men got out carrying the same Thompson submachine guns.
A third man exited the sedan parked in front of the house. The fiend was huge, built like a mountain, and it didn’t look like the others. It had a deliberate way of moving, almost mechanical. While the others wore suits with long black overcoats, it wore fatigues. The skin was gray and wrinkly, the hair blond stubble on its head. It also had black goggles on that concealed its eyes.
Walter had a realization that the ghoul resembled one of the things he’d seen frozen inside the blocks at Icehouse Four and similar to the man Laszlo had met with.
The monster leveled his Browning Automatic Rifle at the house.
Simultaneously in the backyard, another almost identical-looking giant wearing black goggles, but with short black hair, got out of the rear car. Its movements were also stiff and awkward. Emotionless, that ghoul pulled a Browning from the back seat and took aim at the back of the house. The other men clicked back the bolts on their weapons.
It was dawning on the terrified watchman that these men were not the good guys. He lifted a trembling arm. “Now—now, please just hold on just a minute, uh—”
Everyone fired at once, thirty-ought-six and forty-five-caliber rounds.
The old man’s lantern imploded with a flash of flying metal and glass.
The interior of the house shook from the deafening gunfire. Bullets ricocheted throughout the rooms, splintering wood and plaster, turning the residence into Swiss cheese. Dust and debris filled the air, visibility inside now was next to none. The piano rang out two notes which reverberated before it disintegrated altogether.
“Holy fucking shit!” Walt screamed.
At the rear of the house, the back door and kitchen walls erupted from the massive projectiles, rocketing through the rotting walls. The elderly watchman looked like a chunk of raw meat on a slaughterhouse floor. His body was blown to pieces, turning the stoop, front door, and its surroundings into a Rorschach test. The thick pieces of gory torso, limbs, and part of his head still spraying out blood came to rest on the stoop and dirt below.
Walter kept his hand and forearm placed firmly on Tatum’s head and upper back to keep her down. He looked toward the kitchen and pulled her with him as he slid for the hallway. In the backyard, the driver stuck a Thompson out of the window and joined in with his large, tall friend in their efforts to destroy the house. Walter stuck his head into the hallway just long enough to get a fleeting glimpse at the kitchen cabinets exploding into tiny pieces. Bullets flew through the kitchen and into the hallway, embedding themselves into the walls by the stairs.
“Shit!” Walter shouted above all the noise and destruction. “We gotta go back, go the other way!”
They crawled back into the parlor where they had just been, heading toward that other closed door. Walter remembered in the room that connected this room to the kitchen, the floor had looked too spongy and too soft to walk on. The long flashlight in his hand was hit. Everything went black, causing Tatum to scream. Her flashlight spun around on the floor, sending an eerie beam of low-angled light up at the unfamiliar room.
Walter and Tatum’s hands and shins were being sliced open from glass and other flying debris as they slid along the floor. Walt grabbed the small flashlight and placed his hand on her shou
lders. He spoke as loud as he could so she could hear him over the carnage. “Okay, darlin’, you’re gonna have to really trust me here.” He got them both to their feet. “On three!” he screamed.
“What? On three what?!” she frantically screamed back.
“One-two-three!” Walter swung his body and leapt up, Tatum blindly followed. They charged and with all their might, they smashed into the door, breaking it open. Bullets zinged through her long trench coat, missing her body by inches. The two came flying through the door into the adjoining room with the spongy floor. They both made air momentarily before crashing down and through the warped and weak floor.
Walter cradled Tatum, angling his shoulder, and his body went through first, shielding her as they went through the ceiling, and down onto trash and cluttered boxes that floated in the musty, flooded basement. They fell onto pieces of wood and glass, coming down hard in the three feet of stagnant water. The flashlight hit the water but surprisingly did not go out. It illuminated the basement just enough before it sank for Walter to get his bearings.
The awning above the front door crumbled, and parts of the roof partially collapsed. The shooting outside gradually came to a stop as the weapons ran out of ammunition. The men began to reload their weapons, and the two giants on either side of the house simultaneously moved toward the entrances, their big boots smashing down on the debris and shattered glass, getting louder as they got closer.
In the basement, Walter realized he was still alive when the murky water up his nose forcefully spluttered out. Tatum rustled in the water beside him and tried to get to her feet. Walter felt a sharp, shooting pain. He put his hand to his side and it came back covered in blood. He scanned the room and saw a pair of wooden storm doors leading to the outside.
“Hey, you okay?” he said softly, inches from her ear.
“I think so…”
“Okay, just bear with me.”
The ogre with the blond stubble kicked through what was left of the front door. The headlights of the car silhouetted the massive figure against the doorway and gave even more emphasis to its abnormal physique. It stepped inside and unloaded another magazine of the BAR at the interior walls, spraying left to right, creating a deafening sound within the small space.
When the BAR was empty, Walter made his move. “Okay, c’mon.” He got to his feet and pulled Tatum up with him. They trudged through the knee-high water, trying not to imagine how loud they must sound. Walt tried to open the wooden storm doors, but they were locked.
With the .38 in one hand, Walter threw up his .45 and fired it at the storm door’s lock. He held his arm firmly around Tatum and used his other shoulder to crash painfully through the rotted storm doors out of the basement and into the backyard. Walter let go of Tatum, rolled away from her, and came up firing both guns.
Before the big one with the black hair in the backyard could even swing around, Walter unloaded his .38 into the center of its back. It staggered a bit but did not go down. Seeing this, Walter reconfigured his aim before emptying the pistol, sending the last few bullets right into the giant’s face, which got a reaction. Walt swung his .45 at the sedan and sprayed the car, killing the driver and the other man who were both still reloading. Luckily, he was a good shot. The giant staggered, holding its free hand up to its face. Walter took that moment to reload his last magazine into the .45 and ran over to the cowering Tate. He grabbed her hand and fired at the large ogre. It still didn’t go down but did drop the Browning.
Walter pulled Tatum to her feet and rushed her over to the driver’s side of the idling black sedan. He emptied the rest of his Colt 1911 into the Frankenstein monster in front of him, insuring it kept its distance, and swung open the side door. He pushed Tatum onto the front seat, kicking the dead driver out of the way. He jumped onto the running board and threw his empty guns onto the back seat.
“Drive!” he screamed. Tatum fumbled to get the car into gear, and the sedan jerked forward as it started to move. Walter was still climbing into the back when the car sped off like a rocket, and because of the angle of the car’s sliding back end, the centrifugal force slammed the back door shut. Walter hung on, leaning over into the front seat, and snatched the discarded machine gun from the floor next to the dead driver. Luckily for Walt, the gun was completely reloaded before he had expired. Walter chambered the first round and stuck the barrel out of the window.
Tatum leaned into the car’s spin, pointing the front end in the right direction, and hit the gas. The car spun around and caught the large giant who was staggering between their headlights. It glared at them, the face filled with a demonic rage. Tatum and Walter both saw it had two bullet holes in the face, one in the cheek and the other that had broken the jaw, but by the expression, it didn’t seem to be bothering the fiend.
Walter put his free hand on Tatum’s shoulder and squeezed. She understood and put the pedal to the floor, and a moment later they plowed right into it. The goon was somehow able to get ahold of the top of the hood, its feet jockeying for a position on the bumper.
The touring car came speeding around the front of the house with the ghoul clinging onto the front end, spitting up grass and dirt behind it, taking the other gunmen by surprise. Walter squeezed the Thompson’s trigger, and the barrel began to dance on the windowsill.
He took out the one shooter who was standing on the lawn; he stumbled over and fell to the ground dead. Walter then directed the remainder of the full drum magazine at the idling car out front, and the vehicle began to erupt from the impacts. The other driver, still inside, ducked down for cover.
The other ghoul came crashing through the front window of the house and stood up firing his Browning Automatic Rifle. The rear fender and trunk of their fleeing car exploded under the close-range heavy gunfire, causing the taillight to disintegrate and the small number plate to fly off into the darkness.
Tatum didn’t brake, in fact, she sped up, T-boning the other idling sedan squarely in its center post, bending the frame and propelling it clear out of their way. The collision crushed their new friend hanging onto their hood, squeezing and pulverizing its body and twisting it unrecognizably into the steel and iron of their car’s front end.
So understandably, Tatum and Walter were both dumbstruck to see the figure still holding on, a demonic look of rage plastered onto its face, staring right at them. The giant held on for a few more moments trying desperately to get to them. Finally, the weight of its own broken body tore off the car’s entire front end, and the bumper, left fender, headlamp, and front grill ripped completely off. Along with it, the touring car bounced savagely over the mangled body that went underneath the whitewall tires.
The blond goon still gave chase, as the battered sedan they had commandeered barreled toward the street ahead. It threw down its empty rifle and miraculously caught up to their car when it came screeching out of the overgrown driveway and onto the gravel road. Tatum braked so the car wouldn’t overshoot and slide into the woods, and at that very instant the blond giant leapt forward and grabbed hold of the back bumper of their fleeing sedan. It was dragged along the road until Tatum straightened the car out and hit the gas.
The sedan sped away, careening past Walter’s Mercury and almost sideswiping it. Walt saw all four tires had been punctured. He’d have to deal with that later; right now they needed to get the hell out of there.
Walter was in a state of shock and was amazed that Tatum was still able to drive after what they’d just witnessed. He didn’t really snap out of his astonishment until she started screaming.
In the rearview mirror, the black silhouette of the blond ghoul’s figure rose up from out of the darkness, blocking her view as it climbed. Her screaming was so frantic it took Walter a few moments to register what was happening. Walt looked in every direction and only figured it out when he saw the direction of her gaze. He swung his head around to the back window and was astounded as the large
fiend rose and climbed up and over the rounded hump of the trunk. But the sleek design of the aerodynamic vehicle made it impossible for the intruder to grab onto anything solid to hold, since the roof was one smooth piece of curved metal.
Walt checked the weapons, quickly figuring out his options. In the meantime, the giant somehow stood and cocked his fist back, and sent it crashing down with such a force that it punctured a hole in the metal roof just large enough that it could secure a firm grip.
The Thompson was empty, and Walter looked for something else to help him stop the advancing juggernaut, who was now sticking his free arm into the broken back window. Walt stayed low, and the ghoul started to punch away at the hole it had created, widening it. Walter searched along the floor of the back seat and in the darkness he found a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun. Once he realized what it was, he picked it up and swung the business end of it around.
The goon punched the roof again, this time making a big enough hole that it could start clawing at Tatum. She screamed when part of her dress ripped off. The giant adjusted his grip and swung over and down onto the car’s left sideboard, causing the whole car to cant to one side. It fumbled to open the car’s back suicide door.
Walter pointed the double-barrel toward the door and pulled the trigger, but the first barrel was empty or it was a misfire.
“Sssshit!” he yelled. He clicked the other hammer back on the double-barreled shotgun.
With its free hand, the goon ripped the back door completely off the hinges and threw it onto the road. It leaned in and Walter pointed the gun directly at the ghoul’s face, but it moved as Walt fired. The buckshot landed in the shoulder of the arm that gripped the roof. At such close range the arm was completely severed from the body. The goon lost its balance and fell back onto the ground, tumbling down the street and disappearing into the darkness.