by Hunter Shea
“You want me to watch something with you?” her husband, Les, asked.
“You go to bed. You’ve got work tomorrow. I’ll watch Letterman for a little bit. There’s a Claudette Colbert movie on TCM at midnight. I’ll come to bed when it’s over.”
“Why don’t you take one of those pills the doctor gave you?”
“Because they make me feel groggy the next day.”
“Aren’t they the ones that aren’t supposed to do that?” He gathered their empty glasses from the coffee table and put them in the sink.
“You know me and meds. I’m fine. Don’t be jealous that I get to watch more movies than you. I have a little viewing party every night.”
Les bent down to kiss the top of her head. “I married a nut job.”
Margie laughed. “I was fine until I said ‘I do.’”
He wagged a finger at her. “They do say old people need less sleep.”
She whacked him with a pillow. “Then you should only need a catnap, old-timer. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Les trundled up the creaky stairs. Margie clicked between Letterman and Jimmy Kimmel. Both monologues were terrible tonight. At midnight, she flipped ahead to catch the start of The Egg and I. Claudette Colbert’s husband decides to move his new bride to a run-down chicken farm with neighbors Ma and Pa Kettle. “Green Acres before Eva Gabor,” Margie muttered, laughing as Colbert, a big-city woman, struggled with country life.
Midway through the movie, she was more awake than ever.
“Time for a smoke,” she said to Irene, her white, orange, and black calico cat. Irene liked to lie along the top of the love seat and sleep twenty-two hours a day. It was an enviable life.
Margie plucked a pack of Kools and a lighter from the kitchen table and went out the kitchen door. Their house had central cooling, and it felt good to get some fresh air, even if it was slightly warmer and about to be laced with cigarette smoke.
The first cigarette disappeared like it was a prop in a magic act. She lit another with the dying stub of the first and took a long drag. Insomnia and chain-smoking weren’t ingredients for a long, healthy life, but they were her crosses to bear. On nights like this, three or four coffin nails put her in the frame of mind to get a few more hours’ sleep.
A blazing white moon hung large and heavy in the sky. The soft, steady night wind carried the smell of mint from the patch she’d planted in the back of the yard.
“I have to make mojitos tomorrow when Les comes home,” she said, tapping her ashes into the dented tray they got from a long-ago trip to the Catskills. It was sad knowing the ashtray outlived the resort.
She walked around the yard, enjoying the quiet of the night, eventually finding herself in the front yard. Every house along both sides of the street was dark. More than one of her neighbors had told her they slept better knowing she had an eye on the block. Her inability to sleep made her the unofficial neighborhood watch. In no small way, it made her embrace her condition. Everything happened for a reason.
Margie jumped when something crashed in the backyard. Flicking her cigarette into the street, she dashed along the side of the house. She pulled up short when she entered the yard.
“What the—”
Her patio table was turned over on its side. The folded umbrella had snapped in half from the fall.
It would have taken a hell of a breeze to knock that over. She sighed with relief when she got close enough to see that the glass top hadn’t cracked. Les would have a fit when she told him they needed to buy a new umbrella.
She thought about waking him up to help her right the table. It was lighter than she thought and she was able to do it on her own.
“Unbelievable,” she said, inspecting the break in the umbrella stand.
Snap!
Margie whipped her head around to see what had made the noise. It had come from the impenetrably dark strip under their dogwood tree.
Stupid kids, she thought. Late-night pool hopping was common in July, and her yard was part of the route between the aboveground pools to the left and right of her house.
“You’re going to pay for a new umbrella,” she called out. “I know you’re there. Swimming’s over for tonight.”
Something moved in the dark. There was no muffled teen laughter. She felt whoever was under the dogwood tree was watching her, waiting to see what she would do next.
Margie’s chest turned to ice.
She stood motionless, her hands atop the table. Try as she might, she couldn’t see a thing back there.
Scritch!
It was the sound of something sharp dragging across the bark of the tree.
There was more movement than ever now; the sound of shuffling feet amidst her rhododendrons.
She slowly reached into her pocket. Running her thumb over the wheel of her lighter, Margie hoped the flame would discourage any strange, stray animals from getting any closer.
Whatever was in her yard brought a palpable weight of menace.
The night breeze shifted, blowing from the dogwood’s direction. A sharp, terrible odor bit into her. She recoiled, and the light went out.
A large paw emerged from the shadows, followed by another.
Margie’s heart thudded into overdrive when its hideous face emerged.
And it was not happy.
Dalton pulled his car around the plaza in Montauk, the grassy roundabout that was home to the town gazebo. The wooden structure, with its peeling chestnut paint and an interior roof that was a favorite nesting spot for every bird in the county, was a meeting point for families, lovers young and old, and tourists. He’d been told to spend the entire night patrolling the streets there, rather than dividing his time with Amagansett and East Hampton. Another county car was parked in line with the gazebo. Mickey Conrad rolled down his window and waved him over. Their cars idled side by side.
“Pulling a double?” Dalton asked.
“My wife wants a new deck. I have to pay for it somehow.”
Main Street was empty. The rope used to hoist the enormous American flag atop the forty-foot flagpole tapped hollowly against the pole. The bank, Irish tavern and small shops that circled the plaza were dark and quiet.
Mickey said, “Hey, did you hear what happened to the bodies?”
Dalton shook his head.
“The ME nearly had a stroke,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. “All of those parts he and his team collected had turned to liquid by the afternoon. They don’t even have frigging teeth to help identify them. He sent out what was left to see what kind of acid was used on them. You’re either smart or lucky for not getting too close last night.”
“Lucky is more like it.” Dalton offered up a silent prayer that the weird odor he’d breathed in wasn’t going to haunt him later on. “Everything been quiet so far?”
Mickey waved a hand around the plaza. “What you see here is what you’ve got. Last night was enough excitement for ten years, at least. You plan on rescuing any more cats?”
Obviously word had gotten around the station. He wondered if the old lady had called Campos. Now that Mickey knew, he would milk it for every drop. Mickey had razzed Dalton from the moment he’d joined the force. It wasn’t hazing. He knew Dalton could take it, and dish it right back.
“If you start showing your face around during my shift, there’ll be more than cats running onto rooftops,” Dalton said.
“We can’t all be pretty boys. Since you’re here to stay, I’m going to take a quick ride into Amagansett and circle back in an hour. Try not to stir things up while I’m gone.”
Dalton gave him a half salute and watched him pull away.
One of the things he had to do was check in at the beach and make sure no wackos had entered the park to see where the top-trending murder had taken place. He could count on one hand the number of locals that would do such a thing, but with so many tourists in town, you never knew who was skulking about. What the hell was people’s obsession with death and dismemberment?
Turning into Shadmoor State Park and entering under the canopy of trees that lined the gravel drive, he rolled down his window and cut the engine. Before he cruised all the way down to the beach, he listened for voices or movement. Since the car was at the top of an incline, his plan was to glide down in neutral and hit the lights and siren the second he pulled up behind any nocturnal sightseers. That momentary look of shock and unabashed terror, especially if they were teens out for an illegal party, was one of the perks of the job.
The only sound that came into the window was the chittering of cattails swaying in the breeze and the relentless crash of the surf below.
“No fun for you,” he said, turning the ignition and pulling behind the dunes. The abandoned Chevy had been towed to impound some time in the afternoon.
He got out and saw the yellow crime scene tape that had been wrapped around upturned metal trash bins, forming a ring around last night’s horror. The ME had even shoveled all of the sand that had been stained with blood into big, black bags. If it weren’t for the tape, anyone walking by wouldn’t even know two people had been brutally torn apart just twenty-four hours ago.
Standing with his hands on his hips, he took a deep breath. It was a humid night. Looking up, he saw a scattering of tattered dark clouds obliterating swaths of star fields, swirling together like silver glitter on his niece’s little art table.
Might as well take a walk around while I’m here.
He grabbed his Maglite from his belt and swept the beam from left to right, giving the area the once-over. This whole section of the beach had been closed off all day, but you’d never know it by the mass of footprints in the sand that hadn’t been washed clean by the rising tide. Every official and their second kissing cousin had been here. It was going to take a long while for things to settle down. Sure, the news would move on to the next disaster du jour, but for the folks who lived here, there would be little rest until they confirmed who the victims were and who or what killed them.
If that car belonged to Randy Jenks, who had been his unlucky passenger and where had they come from? So far, they’d kept Randy’s name out of the press, quietly following up to locate him for questioning. It was looking more and more like he was the male victim.
The sound of movement in the reeds to his left startled him. He spun the flashlight’s beam into the five-foot-high crop of beach grass. Their tops wavered back and forth. Was it the wind, or was there something behind them?
Squinting, he peered within the gaps of the beach overgrowth, the arcing light giving life to sweeping shadows. His arm jerked to the right when something shifted, then stopped.
I’m not fucking around. Not here.
With his free hand, he unclipped his holster and lifted his gun.
“This is the police. I need you to come out of there right now with your hands up as high as they’ll go.”
A soft gurgling sound gave a solemn reply.
Dalton felt the first trembling jolt of adrenaline push through his system. He took a deep breath and steadied his gun hand. Part of his training was learning to work with your body’s responses to potential danger. The fight-or-flight instinct was a nasty SOB of a primal urge to wrangle. The good cops learned to master it, make it their bitch.
He may not have been on the force long, but he knew he was a good cop.
“I don’t like to repeat myself. I said to get the hell out of there now, where I can see you, hands high. Now!”
The reeds trembled.
“Ggggnnnnccchhhh.”
Looks like I’m going in.
Dalton took a step. The sand shifted and his right ankle nearly rolled from under him.
“Last chance to come out before I start taking this personal. You’re not going to like the way I drag you out.”
Two more steps.
The reeds became still. The strange yet familiar noise had stopped.
Someone was there.
Or was it something?
The tip of his freshly shined shoe touched the edge of the reed patch. Using the barrel of his gun, he pushed the tall stalks aside.
CHAPTER 9
Margie’s lungs felt like they’d been crushed between two trucks. The thrumming of her pulse was so deafening, she could hear nothing but her own frantic heartbeat.
One, two, three animals, creatures so foreign to her it appeared as if they’d been dropped from an unseen, hovering alien craft, slinked from the shadows. They stepped in tandem, their heavily muscled backs undulating with each movement of their massive paws.
The more they emerged from the shadows under the tree, the more Margie knew for certain they were not stray dogs or wandering deer. Mottled fur and heavy, impossible faces were brought into crisp detail under the incandescence of the moon.
Her stomach tightened. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing, not even a stuttering exhalation, would come.
Noiselessly, the creatures continued their wary advance.
An acrid redolence, so strong her eyes began to tear, bullied the fresh air like a canister of tear gas set free.
Les, help me! She pleaded mutely, praying her husband would wake to go to the bathroom and give a curious look to see if she was taking her nightly smoke break.
Margie felt a patch of liquid warmth blossom on her crotch, snaking down her legs.
What the hell are they?
All three were roughly the same size—huge. When she was a kid, Margie had a Dalmatian. It was the biggest dog in the neighborhood. Her father was a tall man, and Dizzy, their amiable, gentle and exceedingly patient dog, stood about waist-high next to him. But where Dizzy was a wonderfully built pure breed, these things were a confusing mix of not only other dogs, but other species.
The fur on each was a different color. One a mix of black and gray, the other brown and the last one on the right a patchwork of colors. Clumps of hair were missing on each, revealing scraps of raw flesh that, to her dread, appeared to be varying shades of blue, as if they were oxygen deprived. Other than birds and fish, she couldn’t think of any mammal that had blue skin.
Maybe something was wrong with them, like whatever made their hair fall out also damaged their skin underneath.
But it was their faces that froze her to the spot.
They weren’t long like a dog’s, but blunt, with oversized, black eyes and snouts that tapered down to a sharp point. She could have sworn they had beaks underneath the coarse fur that covered their heads. Their lower jaws were markedly smaller than their upper, each possessing an overbite that looked like it would make it very difficult for them to chew.
And yet there was something disturbingly piglike about them, or maybe more like a wild boar. In fact, one of them had the makings of a tusk protruding from the side of its mouth.
In all, they were a nightmare made real, the monster lurking under your bed or the beast waiting in your closet for you to fall asleep.
As they came closer, she heard their labored breathing, rattling with phlegm-filled lungs.
Margie’s own lungs unlocked, and were now pulsating as she began to hyperventilate.
Run, dammit, run!
The one with the brown hair opened its mouth wide. The sound of its jaw popping echoed in the yard. A sharp-tipped tongue slithered over rows of small, jagged teeth.
The stench that wafted from its open maw, a vile gas originating from what could only be a diseased digestive system, slammed her like smelling salts, even from ten feet away.
Her husband’s name erupted from her lips. “Les!”
The creatures reacted not by pulling back, but coiling their hind legs to sprint toward her, their eyes wet with hunger.
Margie gripped the edge of the patio table and pushed it over, attempting to create a barrier between her and the embodiments of her worst nightmares.
The moment the table left her fingertips, she spun, running for the back door. She flinched at the sound of breaking glass. As she gripped the latch to her screen door, she turned to gaug
e her chances of making it inside before they got to her.
The black and gray beast had barreled straight through the tabletop. Shards of glass poked out of its hide and razor-like muzzle. The other two had either gone around or leapt over the upturned table.
At best, they were two steps away.
She yanked the outer door wide, giving the knob of the inner door a hard twist.
As it opened, fire erupted on her calf. Margie looked down in shock. The brown one had clamped down on her lower leg. One of them hit into the side of the screen door, warping the metal pane on the bottom. The other fought to get past the one biting her so it, too, could have a piece of her.
Margie’s cry shattered the silence in the house. She heard Les’s footsteps running down the stairs. Half in and half out, she shook her leg to free it from the monster’s bite. Something tore. Her stomach lurched as she watched her blood paint the door.
Fumbling along the kitchen counter, her quivering fingers happened upon the handle of her metal meat tenderizer. She’d left it on a dish towel to dry after doing the dishes. Six hours ago, she’d used it to pound out her chicken cutlets.
Now, she brought it down as hard as she could on the side of the creature’s head, catching part of its eye in the process. It struck with a loud crack as well as a sickening squish as the tip of the tenderizer plowed through its black eye.
It released her, backing into the other one that was eager to get at her leg.
Margie fell backward as Les turned into the kitchen. Sobbing, shouting and mumbling incoherently, she had the presence of mind to use her good leg to kick the door shut. One of the beasts thumped heavily into the door.
Les’s bare feet skidded along the smear of her blood. He put his hand on the door handle.
“No, don’t open it!” Margie screamed. “Lock it! Lock it!”
Les saw her leg and the look of unadulterated terror on her face, dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms. She dug her nails into his back and buried her face in his chest, the fear and pain reducing her to uncontrolled, heaving sobs.
A lone seagull buzzed overhead. Its undulating cry masked the crunching sound of the dry reeds as Dalton stepped farther in. The beam of his flashlight bobbed up and down, side to side in a controlled attempt to avoid any surprises.