Coin-Operated Machines

by Alan Spencer

  Brock understood the man was distressed, but he couldn't take the chance the old man did have a loaded gun and would harm or scare someone else. "Listen, do you have a working phone?"

  An apology spread on the man's face. "You probably want to talk to the police. I'm sorry, why didn't I think of that? Yes, we have a phone, but let me call him. I know the sheriff pretty well. My dad and him are good buddies. I can clear this up real fast so you folks can be on your way."

  "That would be great." Hannah stepped closer to Brock, holding his arm. "Thanks for your help, Michael. And I'm really sorry about your store."

  Brock watched him for a moment, and then Michael made to step to the back room when he snapped his fingers as if he just remembered something. "Hey, I forgot, my only working phone is a pay phone. During the heist, whoever cleaned me out even took all of my quarters. It costs fifty cents to make a call. I hope you have some change."

  Hannah dug into her purse and handed him the coins. The man's face lit up as he accepted the coins. Michael hurried into the back with quick steps. After a long moment of silence, Brock turned it over in his head. "Can't you call the police for free?"

  She thought on it. "Yeah, you can."

  "Maybe he forgot. It looks like he's having a really bad day."

  "I would be too if my business was robbed."

  "Or if an old man aimed an empty gun at me."

  "No kidding."

  Brock remembered staring at the GPS screen before spotting the old man. They were less than ten miles from The Piedmont Inn. At least he would have a story to tell Angel to break the ice, he thought, instead of jumping right into drug addiction and how terrible of a brother he'd been.

  Thinking aloud, "I'm still nervous about Angel."

  "I bet you are. Once we get this out of the way, we'll drive out to her. Do you have the phone number of the place she's staying?"

  "When what's his face comes back, we'll ask him if we can make another call. I wonder why Angel's here in this town. Maybe an old friend lives here, but I hope, I hope, she isn't shacked up with some drug dealer on the run. Why else would she be so far away and in the middle of nowhere?"

  "You can't say, so don't. We don't know anything yet."

  That's when they heard a sharp clap and then the turn of a lock. The place was silent, suddenly no cheesy store music.

  "What was that?" Brock took quick strides to the back area. Hannah stayed right behind him, clutching his shirt, as they moved passed the boys and girls restrooms to a set of double doors. "Hey, Michael? Are you back there?"

  "Brock, he said there was a payphone. So where the hell is it?"

  "Maybe it's in back."

  "Nobody keeps a payphone in their stockroom."

  "Let's just check out the back room and find out what's going on. We don't jump to anymore conclusions until then, okay?"

  She whispered it, "Deal."

  "Michael," Brock called out again, more insistent this time. "Where are you, buddy? Mike, you there? Come on."

  Throwing open the doors, the back room was a small access with shelves of back stock and an emergency exit. No other rooms, Brock deduced. "It's obvious what happened. The man took off."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Maybe he wasn't the store owner."

  "But why would he make up that story about being robbed and then asking for change for the payphone."

  Brock's words sharpened. "I don't know, but we should leave."

  He opened the emergency exit door and grabbed Hannah's arm, and they both left the building. The moment they entered Blue Hills, the events kept getting stranger.

  Brock took the lead. "Stay quiet, I'm going to take a look out front to make sure all's clear."

  Hannah forced him back by his coat. "You're not going without me."

  Brock kept his eyes on the edge of the wall. "I'm just going to stick my head out and take a glance. That's all. I promise. Just stay here. I'll be two feet from you. You keep your eyes glued."

  Though the store was in a clearing, they were a sprint's distance away from the woods. It would be a quick way to hide if anything weird happened.

  Brock leaned forward, pivoted his body so only part of his head would stick out, and he spied the huddle of people around their car. Two were men, each of the guys working a coat hanger down into the window. A woman was watching the road with a double barreled shotgun in her hand and a scowl that would deter any passerby from stopping the obvious crime from happening. Each of them were dirty and ragged as if they'd been hiding in the woods. One had popped open the passenger side door, and all three of them began frantically rooting through the glove compartment, under the seats, and another popped open the trunk and checked out the goods.

  "What do you see?" Hannah asked. "I hear something going on out there."

  Brock kept watching them and noticed a fourth woman. She was approaching the storefront with a large rifle in her hands.

  "Shit, this isn't good," Brock whispered, trying to figure out what they should do next. Their phones didn't work. Michael had run off and left them behind. They still had a mile or two before they reached any lodgings or the public. "I think we should run, and I mean right now."

  Hannah was about to speak up, but he clamped his hands over her mouth, stole her arm, and they took off running to the nearest group of trees. Brock wanted to tell her there was no time to explain, but watching the woman strut up to the building with the gun in her arms and the bad intentions on her face, he knew better than to ignore his better judgment. After running far enough, they hid behind a group of chestnut trees. They hunched down on their knees and Brock pointed at the building.

  "They're coming. We needed to run. They're armed."

  Hannah bunched up against Brock as they watched the building. Moments later, the emergency exit door was kicked open. The same woman with dark auburn hair with the rifle scoped the terrain with the barrel. Brock forced Hannah to duck even lower. "Stay still."

  They could hear the four people talking:

  "They saw us."

  "You think they're gone?"

  "Can't see them in my rifle's scope."

  "That'll save us a few bullets."

  "Did you set the car on fire?"

  "The rag's burning. Give it a few more seconds. They won't be getting far on foot."

  "The woods will swallow them up."

  "I'd rather take my chances out there than in the streets."

  "So we just let them go?"

  "Saves us bullets. Besides, you got to worry about ol' Chuck and his axe more than anything. He'll get them before they get us."

  "All right, let's go. Forget them. We got everything we can take."

  "It's not fucking much."

  "More than the other times."

  "Still not enough."

  "Better than nothing, so get over it. Let's move before Chuck shows up."

  It wasn't more than two seconds before the large explosion of an erupting fuel tank called an end to the quiet. With a massive shattering of glass, the hood was thrown up, spinning in the air like a broken bird's wing. Falling down, it rattled against the street. Smoke filled the sky, the proximity reeking of burning gasoline and rubber.

  The four cheered as the car burned, and with a slew of excited words, they bounded from the building to find another group of people to exploit.

  All Brock could do was wait for them to leave and feel Hannah's body rock with terror.

  SEARCH FOR SHELTER

  Brock knew they couldn't stay out here for much longer. It was late afternoon, and the sun would only be up for another two or three hours, and then it would get dark. Their transportation was destroyed. Time was short to make a move into town. He feared running into the four people on the main road. Frustrated and fearing for Hannah's safety, he made the bold move to stand up from their hiding place. He tried his cell phone when Hannah dug hers from her purse, and they were both alarmed at the change in each device. A thin metal covering covered up the di
git keys. And in the center of the covering was a thin slot centimeters wide. Purposeless as far as he could tell. The biggest concern was how the change could've occurred. The damn thing had been in his pocket during the whole day.

  How did a metal covering get there?

  Hannah gripped her phone as her face shrank and turned powder white. Horrified by the phone, she heaved it into the woods. "You should do the same, Brock. Something really isn't right here. It's more than a feeling. I don't want that cell phone near me. It did that on it's own. How is that possible? It's, it's insane."

  "We can't throw away our only lifeline."

  "There's a metal shell over it. Did you feel it change in your pocket? Mine was in my purse."

  He traced his finger down the cold steel, silver like the chrome covering of a Magnum pistol and as impenetrable as body armor. He used his fingernail to try and pry it from the plastic covering and ended up chipping his nail. "No use. It won't come off. It's stuck on there good. And no, I didn't feel it change in my pocket. It just happened."

  "Well that doesn't make any sense. Throw it away."

  "I can't just toss it. Think about it. Besides, I want to show it to somebody else. They won't believe us unless we can show them."

  Before he could react, she seized his wrist, pried the phone loose, and heaved the cell phone into the woods. "There's something wrong with it, and I don't want it near me, you got that? It scares me!"

  Brock turned in the opposite direction of her, checking the bunches of trees and making sure nobody had heard them. Then he appealed to her before he lost his temper. "You just threw away our only potential lifeline. You realize that?"

  Hannah's face was burning red and wet with tears. She let them roll down her cheeks. Softly, "This place is scaring me. I say we leave. We leave right now."

  He would've agreed, but now Brock had another worry. Where was Angel, and how had she been affected by this? "This could still be a huge misunderstanding."

  "Our fucking phones changed by themselves. It's not a misunderstanding. It's creepy. Something's very wrong here."

  Brock had to step away from her and collect himself. He breathed in and out, pretending he had a paper bag against his face. Hannah leaned against a tree, shaking her head, denying what had happened had actually happened. Then she perked up. "Hey, I see a house. Do you see it?"

  Through the thick of chestnuts and poplar trees, the terrain shot up a steep incline, like the hump of a foothill. At the top of it, he caught the outline of a chimney and a yellow house.

  "Yeah, I see it. What do you think?"

  "I can't imagine walking on the road into town," Brock said. "We don't know where those people went. Besides, it'll get dark soon. The house is our best option. And the phone thing is freaking me out too. I know it's a delayed reaction, but I'm just trying to process this one thing at a time."

  She hugged him close, drawing what comfort she could squeeze from his body in that moment. "Me too, Brock."

  Brock kissed the top of her head. He was forced to give up the idea that this would be a simple retreat to save his sister.

  The way to the house took much longer than they first imagined. Brock guessed the trip was a mile, but the terrain was hidden by treetops, random dips, inclines, and the trail with its many potholes that had threatened to turn both their ankles on numerous occasions. He expected to run into a group of raccoons, opossums, white-tailed deer, or a coyote, but the area was desolate of life.

  On the way to the house, he kept thinking about the changes in their cell phones. "It's interesting how Michael said there was a pay phone in the place, yet we didn't see one."

  "We could've missed it."

  "Why didn't he have a cell phone? Everybody has one these days."

  "True." Hannah shivered against the cool winds. "That guy was wigged out. Who knows what he was thinking?"

  "And what the hell did he do with your fifty cents?"

  "No kidding." She was grateful for something to laugh at. "What a cheapskate, huh?"

  Brock enjoyed watching her smile. It was a return to how it was only three hours ago before they entered Blue Hills and all was normal. They were the missionaries coming to save Angel and to enjoy Virginia's foothills.

  He considered how it would sound to an outside group if they told them about their cell phones. "Until we can find someone to talk to, until the police are involved, I say we remove any talk of cell phones growing metal coverings on them. We make sure Angel's safe, and then we get the hell out of here. As beautiful as it is out here, I'm about to jump out of my skin."

  "Shitting my pants is more like it." Hannah took the lead as the terrain once again turned steep. Their shins ached. "You had a point earlier. Maybe we should've kept the cell phones."

  "It would've been proof."

  Hannah dismissed the idea again. "Yeah, but I still don't want the damn things near me."

  "I'll add this story to my memoir. Wait, oh shit! I left it in the car. All that writing up in smoke. Those sons-of-bitches."

  Hannah made no attempt to comfort his loss. "You shouldn't be worrying about that right now. You can start over some other time." Hannah jerked his arm and stole his attention. "I can see the back porch from here."

  Ah, thank God. "It was only a matter of time we'd find it."

  Hannah was already ahead of him, determined to exit the woods and enter a cleared area. Ferns surrounded the house among tulip poplars and mountain laurels. The back of the house on the second story was designed as a deck to view the scenery, their position facing the dark blue waters of some far-off body of water.

  Brock scoured the area for any obvious signs of a presence in the house, and after counting each window without lights or movement, each of the window curtains drawn or the white shutters closed, he decided they should take a closer inspection of the property.

  Cupping his hands into a megaphone, he called out, "Is anybody home? My name is Brock, and this is my fiancé, Hannah. We need to use your phone. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. We need help."

  Hannah scowled at the axe head driven into the bare stump of a chestnut tree. Nervous by the sight of it, she was drawn to Brock, waiting beside him for a reply from within the house. After minutes passed in silence, Brock called out again, serving up the same rendition of S.O.S.

  Brock turned to her, shrugging his shoulders. "I say we go to the front door and knock. Maybe they can't hear us. Or they're not home. In that case, I guess we have to hang around and wait for someone to come home. Either way, I'm using whatever phone's inside."

  Walking up the short cobblestone path, they arrived at the front porch. Brock tried the doorbell. They could hear the sharp ding echo within the house. Ringing it one more time after ten seconds of not hearing footsteps or a reaction from the inside, he conferred with Hannah. "No one's home."

  She rubbed her arms, her aqua green sweater unable to block out the cold. "I don't want to stand out here too long. I'll freeze. And we really need to call the police as soon as possible."

  Brock was cut off by the strangest noise. The ground emanated with a bass throb for miles. Hannah's nails dug into the skin of his arm. Her words were cold against his ear, "I say we go inside right now."

  Still listening to the unusual noise that emanated from the ground, the unique tremors under his feet, Brock couldn't stop trying to understand what he heard.

  For a moment, Brock swore it sounded like words.

  THE HOUSE

  The front door was open a crack. Hannah urged it all the way open with two fingers, as if using two fingers denounced the notion of trespassing. Raising her voice, she spoke into the entryway. "Is anybody home? Please, we need help. I'm sorry to enter your place like this, I know it's rude...ah God, what is that smell?"

  Brock could hear her throat close upon taking in the offal. He too was knocked back a half-step by the punch of raunchy air. Brock covered his hand over his mouth to fight the waft. Something was dead, Brock evaluated, and it stank
like the animal blood in packaged raw meat.

  Brock insisted, "I want you to stay here and let me check it out."

  He couldn't believe what he had just said, though he wouldn't dream of taking it back. It was all a matter of finding the nearest phone and dialing the police, he reminded himself. He entered the living room, looking at the loveseat, the recliner, and the large screen TV sandwiched by two shelves of DVD's. Brock continued to follow his nose, the knot of apprehension in his belly growing heavier as his eyes waved from one end of the room to the other in preparation of any sudden movements or the owner crouching down with a shotgun aimed at him.

  He called out once again, "My name is Brock Richards. I need to use your phone. I apologize for intruding. Is anybody here?"

  After no responses, Brock decided the owners weren't home.

  Then Brock caught the phone hanging against the far wall next to what looked to be the entrance into a kitchen. Running to it, he also discovered the answer to the other question lingering in his mind.

  The source of the smell.

  Hannah kept calling him, and Brock didn't answer. Staked in place by a bout of shock, Brock analyzed and re-analyzed the corpse of the man on the floor. The body was face-first on the ground. Palms turned back so the insides were facing up. No struggle, it seemed; there wasn't a fleck of blood beyond what had soaked into the man's clothing. Between his shoulder blades, a square hole the size of a shoe box was carved out clean, as if performed by an instrument that could carve perfect right angles into bone. Someone had just reached in and pulled whatever out in the shape of a box. The flesh inside the hole was pink and gummed up from puckering in the open air for too long. The flesh itself was slowly turning shades of blue, purple, and blackening in sections where blood had congealed. What he had been smelling was vile gases escaping the corpse's body.

  Brock's jaw ached from his mouth hanging open so long. His hands were clutching the counter for grip. This house was supposed to be a salvation, not a crime scene. Spotting the phone again, he rushed right to it, clutching onto the handle, his hands slippery with nervous sweat. He pulled back so hard, he ripped the phone from the wall. The device crashed to the floor, the receiver and the box breaking into many plastic pieces.