by Alan Spencer
He challenged the intruder, but then he recoiled after catching what was splayed on the assembly line. The conveyor belt was littered with pieces of his co-workers. Four heads were shrink-wrapped. Livers, spleens, hearts, arms, legs, feet and hands were arranged along the line in uniformity to the largest to smallest pieces. Blood gurgled down the drain between the intruder’s black boots. The stranger wore a white uniform with a black vinyl apron, all of him splattered in red. The man grunted again, a pig in human form. Even his nostrils were raised high and his eyes beady and black. His black hair was slicked back and waxen in the overhead lights.
He raised a red-spattered cleaver. “MY CUTS!”
The statement didn’t make sense, but the remains of his co-workers clarified his intentions. Where the man had come from, Dean wasn’t sure. He wasn’t a familiar customer. The intruder looked like a butcher by his dress and the manner in which he wielded the blades. Fearing if he ran, the man would attack him, Dean waited for the butcher to make his move, but the man went about his business unaffected by Dean’s presence.
He raised a clever to Marge Bryant, the receptionist, who was stripped naked with a hook wedged between her shoulder blades. Dean had imagined how twenty-eight year old Marge would look naked and in his bed many times before today, but now that she was bleeding from the chest, he was petrified and ashamed for ever picturing her like that.
The butcher sawed at Marge’s scalp and peeled back her hair and revealed the slick white bone of her skull. Dean couldn’t stand by and watch, he kept thinking. He gathered the courage to sprint for the door, and turned the knob, but his escape attempt was countered by a swish-swish-swish-swish sound that stalked him. A flicker of movement, the glint of metal and capture of light, a cleaver spun and severed his hand from the door handle. His fingers remained clenched on the knob.
Blood spat in large gobs from his wrist.
“Fah-uck!”
The intruder was now right behind him, and he drove a five-inch boning knife into his collarbone hilt-deep. Dean’s left side tingled numb. Purple blotches formed in his eyes. Dizzy. On the verge of passing out.
Sweat dripped from the man’s pudgy white face, and in Dean’s troubled vision, the man looked like a glistening greasy smear.
The butcher shrieked, “MY CUTS!”
Dean’s eyes lolled into the back of his head, but he caught a name embroidered in blue on the man’s breast pocket.
Jorg.
The butcher lifted Dean up to his face, waking him up again. Jorg opened his mouth, and in one jerk-fast motion, he clamped his teeth down upon Dean’s cheek. Dean urinated and screamed, but Jorg squeezed his throat to silence him. The man released his grip, and Dean tumbled backward onto the floor, bleeding from the face and shoulder.
Dean couldn’t form the words to beg for his life. He couldn’t move. Jorg towered above him with a meat hook clutched in his right hand. Without mercy, he plunged the hook into Dean’s abdomen, the killing blow.
Afterwards, Jorg muttered to himself, “My cuts are the finest cuts.”
Chapter Four
1
Sheriff Douglas O’Malley couldn’t believe what he was hearing—or seeing, for that matter—when Doris Hamden handed him the Polaroid photo. Doris crossed her arms and shook her head in frustration, remembering what was in the photo. The frock of her white hair was styled in a bun, and its bluish tint caught the sun.
“They were all dead,” she insisted. Her husband, Bruce Hamden, ambled out of the doorway by the use of his cane. He worked out a pair of spectacles from his overalls and eyed the sheriff, but still let his wife do the talking. “There was six of ’em. They trampled my perennials, and my poodle is gone. I haven’t seen Peanut Butter all morning, and he always comes inside to eat. That dog wouldn’t run way. Peanut Butter loves us.”
The sheriff studied the Polaroid and scratched his chin. He opened and closed his eyes questioning the authenticity of the photo even though the Hamdens were in their eighties and harvested grain for thirty years before retiring. Modern computer technology was beyond them.
“Um, what time did they cross your property?”
“Six in the morning,” Bruce replied finally. “I was looking for Peanut Butter when those, those people skulked out of the woods. Who knows where they were really going? Look of troublemakers, that bunch, up to no good at all.”
Doris jumped back into the conversation. “I shouted at them when they cut right through my garden. Like they didn’t even watch where they were going.” She pointed at the heap of squashed watermelon, cucumbers and tomatoes. “Those bastards walked through the barbed fence without muttering a curse. They were dead. I smelled them, the wretched stinking people. Worse than a porch full of rotten jack-o-lanterns. Look at the picture, I got Bruce to snap it before they hid back into the woods.”
The sheriff refocused on the picture and let it sink in. The picture was in focus. The sun didn’t blur the horizon. It was obvious what Bruce had spotted in the woods. It was the only evidence that kept him from dismissing the Hamden’s as senile.
Four figures stood in the picture, even though two of them were barely in the photo. They each wore black suits, the clothing dirtied and torn. Their skin was what appalled him. Blackened. Decayed. Earthworms writhed from their cheeks and their mouths, their sockets deflated and caramel colored.
“You don’t believe what you see, but it’s there all right,” she said, poking her finger at the picture, trying to cement her argument. “Nobody would trust us if Bruce didn’t take that photo. He blasted a couple rounds from the shotgun in the air, and they didn’t react. They didn’t hurry off or duck. Weirdoes just kept walking the way they were going. They shore didn’t care none about us.”
The sheriff’s head ached. It didn’t make sense. “These men…are dead.”
“Thank goodness you agree! You have to find these people. Maybe it’s a prank someone’s pulling. It’s the best I could come up with.”
The shock of the photo wore off, though the sheriff wasn’t accustomed to this stretch of disbelief. The worst crime in Anderson Mills was vandalism at the local baseball stadium or a culprit stealing gas. “I’m taking this picture and calling headquarters. The next time someone crosses your property, don’t take the law into your own hands and bring out your gun. Lock yourself up in your house and call us, okay?”
“It’s not every day you see dead people crossing through your yard.” Doris ignored his suggestion. “Next time they trample through my garden, they’ll be lucky not to be shot for real.”
Jesus Christ, O’Malley thought. Find something better to do with your time.
He had a line of suspects in his mind. The dead didn’t walk or escape the grave, even though the figures in the picture looked to be straight from the cemetery. Someone was pulling a prank, as Doris suggested.
“Bored hick town,” he muttered under his breath. “Okay, Doris. I’ll have my men on the lookout for these people, but I think you hit the nail on its head by suspecting a bunch of kids did this. I apologize for your flowers. I’ll have the culprits’ parents buy you new ones—better ones, in fact.”
He entered his patrol car and called the report in to dispatch. “I’ve got a group of teenagers parading around town dressed up as dead men—and don’t ask, just report it. Have all patrols on the look out for these idiots.”
2
Wayne Brooks unlocked the doors and entered his business. Anderson Mills Deli Meats didn’t have any customers until the summer’s tourist industry was running full-force. He finished hiring four local teenagers to help him operate the place, the same kids on his roster as last summer and the summer before that. He managed the establishment with his wife, Melanie, for two and a half decades—as long as they’d been married. The chairs in the dining area were stacked on top of the tables with tarps draped over them to block out the dust. The salt and pepper shakers, metal napkin dispensers, plastic cups, forks, spoons and condiments were all in storage.
Four d
ays before the grand opening, Wayne reminded himself.
The order for turkey, ham, roast beef and fresh vegetables were on their way this Friday. Today, he’d clean the bread oven, the walk-in fridge, and sanitize the bathrooms and the tiles in the dining area. The place wasn’t half as big as Mason’s Market Place, a restaurant that was miles up the road, but he cut the freshest, best-tasting meats in Anderson Mills. He was old enough now, in his mid-fifties, to earn his money during the summer so that he could take the rest of the year off. It wasn’t a dread to return to work, but it was giving up his free time to fish and chug beer at Silver Lake. The prime skin would be showing up soon in bikinis. The idea that those women would cross into his store again motivated him enough to start the day.
He unloaded cleaning supplies from the back of his Bronco and set about sweeping the dining area when a breeze from the back area brushed across his body. Wayne didn’t recall keeping the back door open, or any windows.
Someone could be inside, he thought.
Wayne’s reluctance to check the back room continued even after he hopped over the register counter and walked behind the empty chip racks.
“Anyone back there?”
It was a stupid question.
Dirty footprints caked tiles that should’ve been clean. Dust accumulated on the shelves and walls during the off-season, but there wasn’t any reason for footprints. He counted the list of people that could’ve entered the building, and the only one with a key was his wife, and she was out of town for the week visiting her parents in Illinois and coming back on opening day.
That left only one option.
An intruder.
Were they still inside, he wondered, clasping a broom and unscrewing the head. He carried it like a club ready to dash across the derelict’s head.
“I’m calling the police. This is your last chance to run.”
A wet slap.
What in hell was that?
Fear crept into voice. “There’s no money here, not even food. It’s not worth going to prison over, man, so just go. I’ll forget this ever happened.”
A faint odor of sweat and blood drifted thickly. Wayne inspected the counter where sandwiches were made. Nobody. Nothing. The sink and metal shelves reserved for canned items were untouched. That left the meat preparation table at the back of the room.
The soft skitter of steps and a cough—whuh-whuh-haaaaack!—warned him of another’s presence. The walk-in fridge door opened and shut. He rushed forward and wedged the broom through the notch for the padlock on the fridge door.
The intruder was trapped inside.
He turned around to discover the harrowing scene. It registered in fragments, so incomprehensible. The uncovered meat slicer, the blade glazed in red spatters and human hair, the smooth layers of purple-red meat stacked in the tray, the bloody footprints that brightened the tiles, the human pieces stored in the plastic bin where he recycled items—one the head of Junior Summers from the slaughterhouse; his expression was furrowed, his tongueless mouth open in an appeal of agony—and the headless body that drip-drained onto the floor upside down tied to the ceiling. The sink was spattered in random gore and hunks of coagulated skin. Wayne peered inside and gasped at the mess of intestines mixed with eyes and bones that were jam-packed into the garbage disposal.
He lost focus, on the verge of fainting. The blood glowed ultra-red on every surface. He was forced to walk slower on the slick floor. Piles of clothes were stacked at the back door. He peered outside and looked at the parked Ford pick-up truck. It belonged to Eddie Stolburg. The clothes were uniforms from Eddie’s slaughterhouse.
Wayne dialed the police, wasting no more time. The sheriff would be right there, he was told.
He didn’t hear the broom snap when the refrigerator’s door was battered open.
3
“I haven’t seen Dad since early last night.” Deputy Mike Stafford listened to Mary-Sue Jennings’ frantic explanation. She’d arrived at his front desk at the Anderson Mills Police Headquarters moments before in a panic. The facility contained four offices, a reception desk, and five iron-barred cells. “I’m really worried. Dad said…” she cleared her throat, “…he was going out for a late night drive. He was driving into town for something, I thought. Nothing special. I haven’t seen his vehicle or anything since then.”
Deputy Stafford had worked in Anderson Mills for five years. The crime in the area was simple, petty theft and vandalisms mostly, but when someone disappeared the small town had a way of overreacting, so he did his best to subdue Mary-Sue’s concerns. “Maybe your father visited a friend out of town. Doesn’t he hunt deer with Jacob Graham sometimes? He’s done that before unannounced. This isn’t the first time you’ve come here about your father. And he’s been dating Mrs. Johnston in Brush Creek. Maybe he’s left messages on your answering machine?”
She firmly shook her head during every word he spoke. “No, he didn’t do any of those things. He was going into town, and he said he’d be right back. And no, my dad hasn’t left any messages on my machine. I would’ve heard them.”
She was tense. The cherry luster to her face promised a potential outburst. The girl was digging her nails into his desk without realizing it.
“Please do your best to calm down, dear. I know you’re concerned. You’re a good daughter. Jimmy would do well to be pleased with you. But here’s my situation, Mary-Sue. I can’t form a search party and raise alarm if we’re not certain he’s really missing.”
“Damn it,” she cried out, balling up her fists and holding them up against her face. “It’s not what you think. It’s different this time.”
Her eyes darted from left to right in a scramble to make sense of her explanation, as if fact checking herself.
“If there’s something you’re not telling me, you’d best say it now. Do you have a specific reason to be concerned this time as opposed to the rest of the times Jimmy’s gone out for a fun night and forgot to check in with you?”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head. The grumble from her throat was the classic case of the beginning of a breakdown, but she contained it. “No, I guess not. How long will it be until someone does look for him?”
“I’ll tell dispatch to keep an eye out for him, okay?” The deputy scooted out from behind his desk and helped Mary-Sue to the exit. “Don’t worry about a search party, Mary-Sue. He’s not in trouble. If he’s not back by tomorrow, I’ll make the call and things will be set in motion. Promise me you’ll contact the station if he turns up.”
She didn’t utter another word, but instead, hurried to her truck and drove back into Anderson Mills toward her house.
The deputy removed a Doral cigarette from his breast pocket. He watched the truck pick up speed down the road until it was gone.
Chapter Five
1
The locals recognized him, Andy gathered, as he roamed the shelves of Anderson Mill’s Florist and Grocery store two blocks south from where he’d finished his conversation with Walter. The stocking clerk gave him a dirty look as he lined cans of Campbell’s soup for a display. The older lady at the florist station, the name on her tag reading “Florence,” snipped a dozen roses at the stem when she raised her eyes up at him. A middle-aged couple sneered at him as they scrutinized the store’s selection of bread. Did his uncle have such a prolonged effect over Anderson Mills? He wondered if Ned encountered this problem on a daily basis.
This is why he wants to get the hell away from here. Everyone’s tagging the Ryersons as murderers.
He experienced the urge to shout “boo” at everyone. The fear of the patrons was an interesting phenomenon. The more he considered it, maybe Uncle James’s story deserved to be cleared up. It was dirty laundry swept under the carpet. He couldn’t let his uncle’s name remain in bad light. The murders were never proven to be the work of his uncle even though he was the prime suspect.
He was so thrown off by everyone’s expressions that he’d forgotten what he came here to
buy. There was a refrigerator in the garage at the house, which Uncle James had used for beer storage. Andy decided to purchase bread, turkey meat and a slew of pre-prepared items like potato salad, fried chicken, pork and beans, frozen pizzas, two twelve packs of Coke and five candy bars—Snickers, his favorite.
He pushed his grocery cart to pay at the front. The cashier was an older man in a fishing hat with small hooks dangling from the brim with gummy green, red and yellow earthworm fish bait. An oak plaque displayed a picture of the cashier holding up a trout by Silver Lake—“Anderson Mills Largest Trout and Mackerel Catch 1984.” The smile from his face dropped when he eyed Andy. To make matters worse, Andy pointed at the bottle of McCormick’s whiskey on the shelf. “I’ll take one of those as well.”
“ID please,” Larry said, the eyes not leaving him until he studied the card. He mouthed the word “Ryerson” and handed it back to him. He gave him the payment, and the exchange was completed without any further words besides, “Have a good day.”
“These people are lunatics,” Andy grumbled after the door closed behind him. “It’s like they want to burn me at the stake.”
He shoved the two grocery bags into the trunk of the Fiesta and caught a girl in her older teens smoking a cigarette near the side of the store. She wore a blue apron that matched the other employees’ in the store, and the girl parted her strawberry blonde hair to look at him. “Are you related to Ned Ryerson? You look just like him. Are you Andy?”
“How can you tell?” he joked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to give me the look of death too. Those bozos couldn’t wipe the dirty looks from their faces with a power sander.”
She smiled. “You look just like your uncle, in a way. The smile on your face, it’s like you’re always happy about something, and that’s not a bad thing. Plus your uncle talks to me when he comes into town. He told me about you.”
“The smile is quite a deception. I’m really a ball of rage and fury.”
The girl was plain-faced with a bored expression. “Ned’s been shopping here off and on ever since…”