Hell Patrol

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Hell Patrol Page 22

by R. D. Tarver


  Bessie lurched down the narrow strip of gravel with Hell Patrol’s full backline in tow. The meandering ribbon of grey cut through the rising topography of the northern hill country, barely visible within the surrounding sea of darkness.

  Mazes and Rust held tight to the gear as they rode in the back of the pickup.

  Rick grimaced as a rogue piece of gravel bounced off the side of the vehicle. “Randy is going to fucking kill us. And all thanks to that buck-toothed little weasel.” He shuffled the atlas in his lap as he tried to help Jesse with the instrument panel. “Switch on the high beams—second knob to the left of the steering wheel.”

  Jesse complied, sighing with relief as the high beams cut through the night. The relief was short-lived as he slammed on the brakes just in time to prevent Bessie from careening down a sharp decline in the road ahead.

  Mazes and Rust slid forward as the truck came to a halt in the middle of the road.

  Rust knocked on the roof of the cab. “Everything okay in there?” he asked through the opened back glass.

  Jesse turned to give a thumbs up. Rust’s cocky half-smile faded into a scowl as his eyes became fixed on the patch of road ahead.

  “Oh, shit. Check out Farmer John over here,” said Rick. “Dude looks drunk as a skunk.”

  Extended visibility provided by the high beams revealed a rotund, middle-aged man who appeared on the side of the road, climbing out from the barrow ditch.

  The man staggered into the headlights, clutching his right shoulder; a trail of fresh blood spilled out from beneath his hand, trickling down the straps of the overalls that cradled his oversized belly. He appeared to call out, but his words became lost in the mighty hum of the truck’s engine.

  Rick pointed past the injured man, towards the pack of canine-like forms that materialized from the darkness beyond the headlights. Jesse recognized the unnatural gait of the creatures as they swarmed the man.

  Hell hounds.

  The fiends recoiled from the headlights, forming a perimeter around their prey just beyond the radius of the high beams. Two of the hell hounds flanked Farmer John, unhinging their jaws in unison to reveal the swelling sac-like organs that gurgled up from their insides. The sound of the low-frequency sonic pulse the creatures emitted was barely audible over the idling engine, but it was enough to cause a wave of nausea to wash over Jesse’s body. He watched in numbed horror as Farmer John slumped to the ground.

  Rick shot back in his seat as one of the hell hounds jumped up on Bessie’s hood. The creature appeared to be the alpha of the pack; it was much larger than the others, easily the size of a great dane, or even a small horse. A series of bony protrusions crested the slick, grey flesh that ran along its spine, amassing in a symmetrical wreath of horns that spanned the circumference of its skull. It pulled off one of Bessie’s windshield wipers and examined it curiously before tossing it into woods.

  “Get it off! get it off!” Rick shouted as he shrank back against the headrest.

  Bessie jostled back and forth as the creature postured on the hood of the truck. Jesse fumbled for the radio controls as it thrashed the barb of its prehensile tail across the hood. The hell hound’s aggressive display culminated in the exhibition of a large, fleshy sac that began to swell from the creature’s abdomen.

  “Cover your ears!” Jesse shouted as he cranked the volume of the radio dial as far as it would go.

  As the radio blasted through the interior of the vehicle, the alpha leapt from the hood and bounded off into the forest.

  Jesse instinctively rolled down the window to avoid puking inside the cab.

  As he leaned his head out the window, he could hear the rising swell of a sustained horn blast that bellowed in the distance. The sound was reminiscent of one of the ubiquitous tornado sirens one might hear in the spring time, but the pitch was much lower.

  He had heard the sound twice before: in the mine and at the church during the horrors that followed the Community Cleansing. An image of swirling darkness adorned by a golden crown filled his mind as he put the truck in gear.

  “Hold on!” he shouted to the others in back.

  A rising wind rustled through the trees on either side of the gravel road just as a clap of thunder broke from the night sky. A second horn blast loomed closer; its very volume seemed to bend the trees towards the ground. Drops of rain began to bead up on Bessie’s windshield as the instrument panel lights flickered on and off.

  Invisible icy fingers of fear massaged Jesse’s scalp as he watched a gaunt, nearly skeletal figure lumber out from the darkness towards the downed man. The pack of hell hounds parted as the figure stepped into the strobing headlights. Dressed in a tattered frock and wide-brimmed hat, the ghoulish spectre looked like someone from that ’70s movie version of The Scarlet Letter, the one he’d watched in English class with the actress who played Hester Prynne with the weirdly blue eyes.

  Drones and their sentinels, Jesse thought, recalling Agostino’s description of the hive legion. Several bony growths had penetrated through the felt hat, holding it fixed against the taut membrane of mummified skin that wrapped tightly around its skull.

  The truck’s engine began to stall out as the lights and radio faltered.

  “Lurker!” screamed Rust.

  “go!” yelled Rick.

  “I’m trying! It won’t start!” Jesse screamed. He frantically jostled the key back and forth in the ignition to no avail.

  Jesse froze. His eyes were locked on the approaching lurker. Its sagging and torn flesh revealed segments of bare bone beneath as it ambled towards the felled man, lumbering forth on atrophied limbs like an arthritic marionette.

  The ghoul knelt down, straddling Farmer John’s chest as it writhed back and forth over him. The motion turned into a convulsive fit as a gush of fluid and sludge spewed from its mouth, drenching the downed man’s head and shoulders. As the ghoul rose, Farmer John stirred to life, crawling to his feet, where he stood dazedly.

  The lurker ambled towards the forest with Farmer John on his heels as the awaiting hell hounds trailed obediently behind.

  “Okay. I’m really starting to hate this fucking town.” Rick reached into the glove box and pulled out the Hand of Doom. He flicked the switch and the machine whirred to life. “It’s hot,” he said, tossing the device through the back window of the cab into Rust’s hands.

  “Get fucked, creep!” shouted Rust.

  He leaned over the roof of the cab, aimed the weapon in the direction of the lurker, and pulled the trigger. A concussive wave of distorted sonic energy surged forth from the parabolic dish and broke upon the revenant.

  The lurker was pummeled by the sheer force of the acoustic wave, flickering in and out of existence as it smashed against a thick oak tree. The force of the blast was so strong that one of the tree’s low-hanging branches had pierced through the lurker’s skull, which poked out through its eye socket like a kabob skewer being stuffed through a grape tomato.

  The lurker flailed at the limb that split through its skull, causing it to wriggle free. It landed face down on the ground and rolled into the barrow ditch where it lay motionless.

  Bessie’s instrument panel shot back to life.

  The headlights revealed an open road ahead; the pack of hell hounds had vanished along with Farmer John.

  “Did you see that shit?” asked Rust, brandishing the Hand of Doom high over his head. He shook the discharged dislocator and handed it back to Rick. “This shit’s cashed, man. It’s one and done.”

  “Punch it,” Rick said, pumping his fist on the dash.

  “We can’t just leave the old man.”

  “Dude, he’s long gone by now. Besides, we can’t follow him into the woods with those fucking things running around. We stick to the plan.”

  Just as the words left Rick’s mouth, Mazes ran past his window towards the forest.

  The Lynn brothers turned their attention to the drummer, who had picked up the felled lurker and was carrying its desiccated body o
ver his shoulder towards the truck.

  “What the fuck are you doin’, dude?” asked Rust. “You got your armor on too tight or somethin’?”

  Mazes climbed in and hoisted the lurker down into the truck bed. “I’ve sworn an oath to protect the realms from the undead.” He scanned the woods warily and spoke through a rare frown. “There are certain rituals I must undertake to prevent this abomination from coming back to wreak its unholy havoc yet again.”

  “Are we seriously gonna allow this? That thing has got to be a health hazard.”

  Mazes smiled and shrugged his massive shoulders. “My apologies, Master Rust. However, this decree has been formalized by our covenant.”

  Rick nodded without turning his head.

  “He’s right.” He folded his arms across his chest and muttered under his breath. “It’s the only fucking thing he requested be put in his contract. Something about ‘turning the undead.’”

  “Whatever. Let’s just go,” Jesse said. “We don’t have time to argue.”

  Free from the sonic influence of the lurker, Bessie started right up when Jesse tried the key. He slammed on the gas just as the engine turned over, causing Rust and Mazes to tumble backwards over their gear and onto the floor of the truck bed. He watched in the rear view mirror for any sign of movement as the gravel drive beyond the radius of the taillights disappeared into the night.

  3

  Agostino had rented out an old farmhouse on the northern edge of town off Route 12. By the looks of the structure, it was a relic of the original townsite settlement that existed long before Macomb Springs was incorporated. The perfect rural getaway for the ethnomusicologist-turned-guidance counselor-turned demonologist. Or whatever the hell he really was.

  Despite Agostino’s enigmatic persona, he was the only person in town that seemed to know what the hell was going on, but more than that, Jesse had grown to trust him. He believed the others were coming around as well.

  When they arrived, Agostino was already out front, directing the work of establishing a perimeter of spotlights, audio gear, and a tangle of speaker cables and extension cords that surrounded the house. Jesse immediately recognized the muscled retail clerk with the heavy scar and thick bowl cut from RadioShack who assisted him.

  “Two distinct blasts, two minutes and sixteen seconds apart.” Agostino clapped his hands. “Did you hear them?”

  “Yeah, we heard,” Jesse said.

  Rust tossed Agostino the Hand of Doom.

  “Thanks for mentionin’ that we only had one round with this piece of junk.” Rust gave him a cocky, headshot-ready grin. “You’re lucky I’m a good shot.”

  “So the prototype does work? That’s wonderful.” Agostino examined the device with a raised eyebrow. “With all that has been going on lately I never had a chance to properly test it.”

  The remaining members of Hell Patrol and their manager exchanged a cold look.

  “Quick, follow Henry into the lab.” Agostino waved the group towards a white metal shed at the back of the farmhouse. “Get everything inside the sonic barrier.”

  “This way,” Henry said. “And try not to break anything.”

  The group unloaded the gear and followed Henry out back per Agostino’s instructions. He led the group into what appeared to be a recently erected metal shed. The pristine white powder coating stood in stark contrast to the adjacent farmhouse, whose rough exterior had not seen fresh paint since before Jesse’s parents were born.

  As Henry opened the front double doors of the shed, an overwhelming stench of decay lingered in the air.

  “Fuck me, they caught one,” said Rust.

  Jesse’s eyes were drawn to movement coming from the back of the shed. In the dimly lit interior, he could make out a large transparent tank covered in chains and pad locks. Inside, a captive hell hound was pacing back and forth, seemingly oblivious to the arrival of the group. A small speaker monitor was mounted on the inside of the tank.

  Despite the hell hound’s movement, no sound came from the tank. A smaller wire cage, draped in an opaque black cloth, abutted against the tank that held the captive sonopod.

  A series of workstations lined the walls of the shed. The source of the stench seemed to be emanating from another hell hound carcass that was laid out on a nearby workbench. Its abdominal cavity had been pulled apart, exposing its innards. Heaping piles of greasy soft tissue and organs lay strewn about on either side of the exposed specimen.

  Distracted by the horrific scene, Jesse barely noticed the pale, hairless man with blue-grey skin who hovered over the body of the dissected hell hound. The man appeared to be attempting to connect the creature’s organs to an array of electronic equipment, the likes of which Jesse had never seen.

  “Everyone, this is Rune—a close family friend and colleague,” Agostino said. “Rune was a prominent biomedical researcher in his homeland and has worked with our family for several —”

  “For a long time,” Henry interrupted.

  “Rune does not speak much, but as you can see he is happy to make your acquaintance,” Agostino said as he turned to face the strange man.

  Rune turned from his work to offer a polite bow. Jesse was reminded of the Crypt Keeper puppet from the Tales from the Crypt tv series as he absorbed the man’s strange features; the same blue-grey skin color permeated his eyes and mouth.

  “And I believe you have already met my older brother, Henry,” Agostino said. “Henry’s expertise is in evolutionary biology and engineering. He does his best to keep our research grounded with a healthy dose of scientific objectivity.”

  “That was the path my father had laid before me. But as far as you all are concerned, I’m head of security for this op.” Henry saluted the group. “I guess you could say that Vinny here’s the brains, and I’m the brawn.”

  “And lemme guess,” Rick pointed at the man with the blue-grey pallor, “he’s the good-looking one.”

  “We’ve met,” Jesse said as he eyed Henry. He began to see the familial resemblance beneath Agostino’s bearded countenance as the revelation took hold in his mind. “You never mentioned he was your brother.”

  “My apologies. A preoccupation with recent events has kept my manners at bay.”

  Rick pivoted in his chair as he surveyed the interior of the prefab laboratory. “You guidance counselors really take your work home with you.”

  The comment seemed to widen Rune’s smile.

  “Guidance counselor is my job, but I have another calling.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?” asked Rick. “Demon Hunter?”

  “Let’s just say that the urgency of recent events have forced our Forgotten Order from the shadows.”

  “Hold on.” Rick looked around the room as though suddenly aware of his surroundings. “You guys really are some kind of Fortean witch doctors?”

  “Nothing gets past you,” Jesse said.

  “Perhaps we can discuss further once this is all over,” Agostino deflected, growing more uncomfortable with the line of questioning. “For now, I think it is best if we continue our collaboration with as much discretion as possible, given the current situation.”

  “You should consider yourselves lucky,” Henry said. “We normally don’t expose our operations to civilians.”

  “I feel anything but lucky,” Rick quipped.

  “Geez.” Rust pulled his shirt up over his nose. “It smells like rotten eggs in here.” He pointed to the dissected corpse strewn across the metal slab. “What the hell are you doin’ with that thing?”

  Henry jumped in before Agostino could respond. “Rune and I have been studying their anatomy in order to figure out the resonating frequency of the sonopods’ living tissue.” He hung his head in defeat as he continued. “These little bastards are all we’ve been able to get our hands on.”

  Jesse elbowed Mazes. “In that case, I think we have something you might want to take a look at.” He looked up at his companion, and cocked his head towards the truck.

/>   Mazes’s perennial smile faded. “So long as we properly dispose of the remains afterwards.”

  Jesse nodded.

  Mazes slumped his broad shoulders, dragging his feet as he made his way out of the shed.

  Agostino pointed towards the array of audio equipment at one of the nearby workstations. “Unfortunately, as Henry mentioned, the technology to gain a precise measurement of such a bio-frequency does not yet exist, so we have had to improvise.”

  Rick wheeled over to an adjacent workstation with a state-of-the-art stereo system. “Nice gear. Do you guys serenade them before you study their anatomy?”

 

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