I shut off my engine and got out as the cop closed in, his gun still drawn. People all around stared. The two attendants helped the wailing orderly, his face covered in gore, back into the hospital.
Still shaking, Detective Van Gundy holstered his gun and turned to me with haunted eyes. “Eighth one this week,” he said.
Chapter Six
This Isn’t Happening
I didn’t think I could drive, so I sat in my truck and stared at nothing. My cell phone rang. Holly. Her heaving voice came loud and close through the truck’s speakers. I tried to get out of her what had happened.
“She was here! She—”
“What? Who?”
“That girl! Missy!”
I looked to see if Detective Van Gundy was anywhere nearby. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know—I guess. She tried breaking into the house.”
“Okay, hang on.”
Steeling myself, I started the engine and maneuvered out of the parking lot, past the police who had cordoned off the area where the crazy woman had been shot. “I’m coming home. Are you somewhere safe?”
“I’m in the basement. I don’t know if she found a way in. Dave, I’m scared.” Her breath came out in short, choppy bursts. There was a tremolo in her voice—she was hysterical.
I tried to concentrate. The cops in Tres Marias were notorious. I had to make sure they didn’t catch me speeding. I wanted so much to be with Holly. My chest was tight and it was hard to breathe.
“I called 911, but they kept me on hold forever. On the news they said there’s trouble all over town. What’s happening?”
“I don’t know, babe.”
I was happy no cops were available. How do you explain a woman you’ve never met attacking your wife? I drove the rest of the way, comforting Holly and telling her how much I loved her. Though they were heartfelt words, to my own ears they sounded thin and tinny.
Sirens blared from every direction. It was like the whole town had erupted. I thought of Jim and that crazed Lap-Band woman at the hospital, and I wondered if more of these undead—what else could you call them?—were attacking innocent people.
“I’m in front of the house,” I said. “Hanging up.”
“Okay.” Holly’s voice sounded weak and far away.
I found a tire iron in the back of my truck, and when I got to the front door, I saw scratches on the casing and the door itself. It looked like someone had tried to claw their way in. I grabbed the door handle. Locked.
Raising the tire iron, I inched past the front windows—they weren’t broken—all the way to the back gate. It was partway open. I pushed the gate and entered the backyard. The glass door leading to the kitchen wasn’t broken. I tried it. Also locked. I checked everywhere else outside the house, and then using my key, I let myself in the front door.
Trotting down to the basement, I called Holly’s name. I heard scraping noises and the sound of the door unlocking. When I entered, I found my wife clutching a baseball bat. The room was cold, damp and still. Only the sound of her anxious breathing broke the silence.
Bare incandescent lights hanging from the ceiling illuminated the basement. They cast harsh shadows, making the atmosphere more unnerving. The only things down there were the washer and dryer, the water heater, an old sofa and boxes of books and other stuff. It looked like Holly had dragged stacks of boxes to the door and covered the narrow windows with newspaper.
I pushed past the boxes and went to her. She dropped the bat and fell into my arms.
“Oh, Dave, I was so scared.”
I kissed her head and held her tight. “I’m here. Let’s get upstairs.”
Scratching noises from the windows chiseled away the silence. Holly almost screamed, then covered her mouth.
“Get upstairs,” I said. “It’s okay, everything’s locked.”
As I handed her the bat, I saw a strange look in her eyes. I heard her footsteps trotting up the stairs, and holding the tire iron close, I slid towards the window and listened. Nothing. Reaching up, I pulled back part of the newspaper.
Missy glared at me, her unblinking eyes grey and dead. Her mouth was raw and bloody from a recent kill. An ear-piercing shriek assaulted my eardrums, and I fell backwards onto the floor. When I got to my feet, she was gone.
* * *
Holly sat at the kitchen table clutching the bat while I made tea. I didn’t tell her what I’d seen in the basement.
“There was something weird about her,” she said. “I saw her through the front windows—not close. I dunno, it was like she couldn’t control her muscles. Like the jimmies, only worse.”
It was all clear to me. The virus had mutated and people were changing faster. Soon everyone in Tres Marias would be infected.
I handed Holly a cup of tea. “Did she say anything?”
“That’s just it. She tried to. But she couldn’t form any words. And that made her even madder.”
I thought of Jim and how he’d tried to communicate with me when I found him that first time. What was happening to these people who were turning into monsters?
“Was she injured?”
“I … I don’t—yes. Her arm. There was this huge gash like it had been ripped open.”
I sat next to Holly. “You were right. We need to get out of here.”
“I’m sorry I called 911. I didn’t think. Now they’re going to find out about you and that devil woman.”
“My God, Holly, don’t apologize. This is all my fault. The important thing is for us to get away from here.” She became cool and didn’t say anything. “Did you ask your mom if we can stay with her? Holly?”
She pursed her lips, and I knew something bad was coming.
“I’ve decided to drive to Mt. Shasta by myself. I’ll call Fred to let him know I quit once I’m up there.”
Her face told me everything. She hated me for what happened. Cheating on her was one thing, but Missy tried to kill her. I brought this evil down on both of us. And what I feared most came true. My wife was leaving me.
“Okay,” I said.
We sat there for a long time, galaxies apart. I listened to the ticking of the singing-bird clock I’d bought her for our first anniversary. Any minute birdsong would startle us rather than comfort.
“I’ll follow you to your mom’s to make sure you get there safe,” I said. “Then I guess I’ll come back here.”
“You should find some other place to stay. For your own safety.”
I touched her warm hand, but she withdrew it.
I wondered if I’d ever see her again. I wanted Holly more than anything in life. She was all I cared about. I’d do anything to protect her from Missy—or anyone else who tried to harm her. But it was what I’d done that put her in danger in the first place. I lost her that first time I climbed into Missy’s bed, the day I condemned myself to Hell.
What’s that saying—bad things happen to good people? But it’s not true. It’s bad people doing bad things to themselves and others. Or people who are more stupid than bad doing bad things. Me, I was somewhere in the middle. I didn’t think I was bad, just stupid. What scared me was the belief that bad people can become good if they want to, but stupid people can’t become smart. They continue living out their pathetic lives, hurting more people along the way till they either are killed or die off.
“I’ll gas up your car,” I said, and left the room.
* * *
It was an hour to Holly’s mom’s house in Mt. Shasta. As I got on the freeway, I saw a military-looking helicopter zooming overhead. All the way up I followed Holly’s blue Prius. She had tried again to go by herself, but I refused to let her. I wanted to keep her safe.
After Holly’s dad died, her mom sold her home in Tres Marias and bought a cabin not far from the lake. They called them cabins, but they were townhomes in a community called Shasta Heights. Thirty had been built when the builder went bankrupt. Holly’s mom got hers at a bank auction and paid cash.
I saw th
e lake shimmering through the trees. The last time I was here was with Jim. It was warm, and there were a lot of boats pulling people on water skis. It seemed idyllic.
Holly didn’t tell her mother what I’d done. She said there was a wave of violence tearing through the town and I felt she was safer up here. Her mom seemed to buy it. She was a simple woman who’d worked hard all her life and took things at face value. I don’t think she had the capacity to recognize intrigue.
“Nice to see you, Dave,” her mom said when I came through the front door with the bags.
She never liked me all that much because of the drinking, I guess. But I saw she was making an effort. Sometimes it was hard to understand her, because most of her teeth were missing. Holly told me once that, when a tooth fell out, her mother would toss it into a mason jar with the others. She used the jar more or less to keep track of her age.
“Good to see you too, Mrs. Mitchell,” I said.
“Irene.”
“Right.”
I planned to return home, knowing Holly didn’t want me around. But she informed me that, for appearance’s sake, I’d better stay till morning.
“I didn’t bring any other clothes.”
“Just do it, Dave. After Mom goes to bed, you can sleep in the living room.”
There’s no better way for a woman to punish a man than to make him sleep away from her. I tried to look on the bright side. At least we were under the same roof.
“What’s this I hear about gangs and violence?” Irene said at dinner.
“Mom, I never said—”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “It’s these random incidents. No one knows what’s causing them.”
“Well, according to Evie Champagne, things have gotten awfully strange. Tres Marias was always such a nice little town. Seems like nothing is nice anymore.”
“You shouldn’t believe what you hear on TV,” Holly said.
“I like Evie Champagne,” Irene said. “She seems honest.”
We played Scrabble for a while like a normal family, then Holly’s mom went to bed. Holly and I stayed up watching Mrs. Doubtfire on satellite TV. Neither of us wanted to talk about what lay ahead. So we sat at opposite ends of the sofa, pretending to laugh as Robin Williams bounced frantically between two tables in a restaurant.
“Do you hate me?” I said when the movie was over.
“Yes.”
“I love you, Holly. I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t, Dave.”
She opened the French doors leading to the small balcony and went outside. I followed her. I could see a full moon through the trees. A cool breeze blew in from the lake, bringing the smell of pine and lilac. Owls hooted in the nearby trees. In any other circumstance this would’ve been a perfect night.
Seeing the stars in the black-velvet sky, I wanted so much to hold Holly’s hand, but I didn’t dare make a move.
“I wish …” she said. “I wish you’d never told me.” She turned to me, and I saw tears glistening in the moonlight. “I wish you would’ve kept it as your dirty secret. And we’d raise our children and grow old together, and I could die believing that you’d been faithful to me. That’s the life I wanted, you being faithful.”
“Holly.”
“But I can’t have it now because you killed it. I gave up so much for you. I thought if I loved you enough I could change you. I was so stupid. I thought it was the drinking that’s the problem. I didn’t know it was something deeper.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” I said.
“You can go to Hell.”
I saw what was coming and let it happen. She slapped me hard, then went to bed. My face stinging, I heard her crying. I’m pretty sure her mother heard it too.
I stayed outside for a time, thinking about everything I’d done wrong. And I kept trying to figure out a way to fix it. There had to be something I could do. I needed to redeem myself. I needed forgiveness. There had to be a way to get Holly back.
A piercing shriek shredded the blackness of the night like a chain saw. Feeling cold, I came inside and tried to sleep. A voice in my head told me that sleep was for babies and old people.
“And the dead,” I said to the walls.
* * *
I left early, having gotten little rest. All night I waited for a call from the police saying I needed to tell them where I was because they had implicated me in Jim’s death. And I waited for a text from Missy. Neither came.
As I got ready to leave, Holly came to the front door and put something I recognized in my hand. It was the gold crucifix she’d received on her First Communion, which she had worn since I met her. As I said, I’m not the religious type—eight years of Catholic school had seen to that—but Holly still believed in the power of prayer.
“Keep it,” I said. “I’m going to Hell, remember?”
“Take it.”
“Why?”
“Protection.”
“In case something bad happens?”
“Yeah. And you might wanna start praying. And go to Confession. Sorry I slapped you.”
I saw in her a friend who was trying to give another friend some good advice. I thought she’d let me kiss her, but she walked away.
“I’ll text you when I get back,” I said, not sure if she heard me.
Her mother was in the kitchen, cleaning up the breakfast dishes. She looked at me in the strangest way, like she knew. I wasn’t surprised. Everything anyone needed to know was on my face.
On the way back, shrill sirens forced me to pull over. Police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck sped past towards the lake. I assumed it was a boating accident.
* * *
I decided to get off the 5 and take a scenic route through the forest. I knew I was delaying my arrival in Tres Marias, but I didn’t have to be at work till ten. There was still enough time to shower and change clothes.
Up ahead, an old bridge road spanned across a dry creek bed. The day was already warm, and I had my window rolled down. Partway across, I noticed some guy running on the dry, dusty rocks. Scared, he wore hiking shorts and a straw hat and had a camera slung across his chest. Tourist. I pulled over and climbed out to get a better look. It was hard to tell his age, but he wasn’t in any kind of shape. At one point he tripped and did a face plant, screaming and swearing.
Then I saw them.
A group of around eight men and women charged after the man, arms outstretched like he’d stolen their wallets. They moved fast, but their bodies didn’t look right. They screeched like some kind of deranged birds. It was the most awful sound I’d ever heard—the same sound Missy had made. They were getting closer.
“Hey, get up!” I said. “Come on!”
He looked at me, then back at the mob. Adrenaline must’ve helped him, because like a torsion spring he shot to his feet and took off running towards the bridge, blood and sweat streaming down his face.
I got into my truck, drove to the end of the bridge, jumped out and waited with the engine running.
He was at the bottom of the bank. He tried scrambling up the side but kept slipping on the thin, dry grass and loose gravel. The mob was gaining on him.
“Try over there!” I said, pointing to a beaten path through the weeds.
He went down a ways and climbed. One of those crazies was on him now—a woman who looked to be in her fifties, with short grey hair, swollen ankles and JCPenney summer clothes. Talking gibberish, she grabbed his foot and tried dragging him down the side. He screamed. I slid down halfway and reached out to take his wrist. Others came and pulled him like lions bringing down a wildebeest.
They wanted to eat him.
Horrified, I watched as they tore at his eyes, tongue and any other soft, juicy parts. It was incredible how they moved as one. Their fingers were like razors ripping through his clothes to get to his swollen, hairy abdomen. I stood frozen on that dirt path, unable to comprehend what was happening. When his intestines spilled out, I scrambled up the path, got into my truck
and shot down the road, narrowly avoiding a boulder.
“God, God!”
Crazy with adrenaline, I made a U-turn and headed back over the bridge towards the freeway. There was little left of the man, and the mob was already dispersing. As I came out of the forest, I heard someone blast their horn. Another car swerved towards me from the driver’s side. Thinking fast, I floored it. The car missed me by inches and hit a tree. I slammed on the brakes.
Shaken but unhurt, I looked to see what had happened. A man lay semiconscious behind the wheel of a black Lexus SUV. The air bag had deployed, reminding me of my own car accident. I got out and went to see if I could help.
Through the window I saw blood streaming from the man’s forehead. He appeared to be in his sixties. It was Isaac Fallow.
“Hey, can you move?” He nodded.
After several tries, I was able to get his door open. I undid his seat belt and helped him into the passenger side of my truck, then got behind the wheel.
“Dave, my medical kit. It’s in the trunk.”
I ran back to the car, popped the trunk and found a large black plastic tub among old newspapers, file folders and crushed soda cans. As I placed it in the back of my truck, I heard the terrifying shrieking again.
“Hurry!” Isaac said from inside the truck.
I saw the mob coming towards us, as hungry as before, and climbed into the truck and took off. Something stepped into the road—a man. I couldn’t swerve. I hit him full on, flattening his body under my truck. A few feet ahead, I slammed on the brakes and looked in amazement in the rearview mirror as the victim sat up. His legs crushed, he tried crawling towards us.
Isaac saw him too. “Just drive,” he said. His voice was calm.
“But he’s hurt.”
“Drive. He’s already dead.”
We jumped onto the freeway and headed towards Tres Marias.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 200