The Siege

by Hautala, Rick

  “If you fellas don’t stop right there, I’m gonna fill you so full of lead you’ll be able to use your dicks for a pencil!” Hocker shouted, his breath puffing a thin cloud of steam in the morning chill.

  The men continued walking toward him as though they hadn’t heard him. If they did hear him, they didn’t care. Their eyes were fixed vacantly on the house door, and Hocker, standing there, waving a gun, didn’t seem to bother them in the least.

  These guys look like those old coots I wasted in the woods, Hocker thought. A cold dash of fear gripped his stomach, and he thought, for a flickering second, that these were two of the men he had killed! A line of sweat sprang out on his forehead as he listened to the crunch-crunch of the men’s boots on the gravel walkway.

  “I mean it!” Hocker shouted, brandishing the revolver. Tasha was watching from inside the house, and she thought she heard a serious waver in Hocker’s voice. She was thinking if those guys got past Hocker, she could probably outrun them in the woods, at least.

  “One more step!” Hocker yelled. His voice rebounded from the hill, sounding thin and pale.

  The man next to the limo was watching with the sunlight catching a wicked gleam in his eye. He had taken a few short steps forward and now stood at the foot of the walkway with both hands in his coat pockets.

  “I fucking-A mean it!” Hocker shouted, and now, before his voice had a chance to echo back, there was the loud snap of the gun… once—twice—three times.

  The revolver kicked back solidly in Hocker’s hand, sending a small measure of reassurance to his brain, but that reassurance quickly died when he saw the two men continue toward him without flinching.

  “What the fuck?” Hocker said, turning the revolver over in his hand and looking at it. A thin wisp of smoke drifted from the muzzle and stung his nose. Was the damned gun loaded with blanks?

  Tasha came forward and leaned on the open door, preparing to slam it shut as soon as the men reached the porch steps.

  Hocker raised the revolver and pointed it at them again, this time sighting carefully along the bead at the head of the man on the right. He held his breath just as he’d been taught to shoot, and carefully squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked twice, and Hocker knew there was no way he could possibly have missed; the dirt slope behind the man kicked up twice as the bullets tore into the ground. But the man who had been his target paused for no more than a second, snapped his head to the side quickly twice, and then continued walking toward the porch.

  Hocker knew there was only one bullet left before he would have to reload. He wanted to beat a retreat, but as he stood there, looking dumbly at the useless revolver in his hand, the porch steps creaked under the weight of the men as they started up them.

  Frantically, Hocker fired one last time, point-blank at one of the men’s faces.

  Yes! his mind suddenly screamed when he saw the waxy skin and dull gleam in their eyes. These are the two guys we killed in the woods!

  And then they lurched forward. Their bony hands made a surprisingly quick grab at him. Yellow fingernails snagged the side of his shirt as he dodged to one side. One of the men, the one who had taken most of his bullets, made a deep-bellied grunt, as though moving with any speed was an immense effort. Hocker saw that he hadn’t been firing blanks; there were three dark holes in the man; two in his face and one in his neck just about his shirt collar. The holes were as clean as if he had shot the bullets through rotten wood. No blood, no ripped flesh, just three clean holes, dry and as black as the night. He could have easily put two fingers inside each hole.

  Impossible! Hocker’s mind shrieked as he lurched to one side just as the men grabbed at him. The revolver was empty, but a dim corner of his mind told him shooting would be useless even if the gun had been loaded!

  Both men, now, were moaning as they came at him, their arms stretched out as though to embrace Hocker. Hocker backed up, but accidentally tripped on a piece of the fallen porch. He fell, sprawling onto the porch floor. His arms and legs clawed wildly, trying to get him up and away, but then something grabbed his foot and held on tightly.

  “Oh, Jesus! Oh, shit!” Hocker wailed as he turned and saw both men looming over him. Their jaws were crunching up and down, and their yellowed and cracked teeth, smeared with dirt, made harsh, grating sounds.

  The hand holding his leg was as unrelenting as a bear trap. The fingernails pierced Hocker’s thick denim pants and dug into his skin. All sensation in Hocker’s foot was gone, and he was wondering if he could get up and run with a dead leg, if he could break the hold on him.

  He looked frantically at the house and was stunned to see that Tasha had slammed the door shut. She was gone! He’d been deserted! Left alone with… them!

  The two men leaned over Hocker, fixing him with their empty stares as they brought their open mouths closer and closer.

  Hocker rolled onto his back and, bracing himself with both arms spread wide, placed his foot onto the chest of one of them. With a great effort, Hocker pushed back as hard as he could. The man’s chest caved in to the pressure of Hocker’s foot, as if the thin shell of flesh and ribs was about to break, before he stumbled backward, his arms waving wildly for balance. He backed into the railing, hit it above the backs of his knees, and cartwheeled into the shrubbery.

  Hocker quickly twisted around and planted his foot on the other man’s chest. He could hear the heavy grunting of the first man as he scrambled to get back onto the porch. Fear and revulsion charged him as he cocked back his leg and kicked the other man several times viciously in the chest. Each time his foot landed, the man made a horrible grunt as air was forced out his lungs. It washed over Hocker in sickening, sour waves. Never in his life had Hocker smelled something so foul or rank coming from a human being. It reminded him of the time his grandmother had her septic system pumped. The heavy aroma of human waste had lingered in his nose for days, it had seemed, and the same smell now emanated from the open mouth of this man.

  Each time Hocker kicked, the man sagged back. But a mindless determination drove him on, like a bone-dumb football player, intent on pushing and pushing until all resistance gave. Hocker couldn’t shake the impression that the man wanted to take a bite out of him, wanted to eat him!

  One wild kick caught the man a glancing blow on the side, and his tattered shirt suddenly split open, revealing the man’s pale, thin chest. With the next kick, his boot heel hit the man in the ribs, just below his left nipple. The white skin, as sickly white as the belly of a dead frog, split open with a loud tearing sound. Again, just like when he had shot them, there was no blood! The man’s chest pulled open as easily as the flannel of his age-rotted shirt. An oval gash more than a foot long opened like a wide, toothless grin. Hocker got a horrifyingly clear view of dark strands of muscles and blackened rib bones, sticking out like wheel spokes.

  “Jesus Christ!” Hocker wailed. His brain was still trying to reject the reality of what he was seeing.

  The man still gripped Hocker’s other leg, and in a sudden, blinding panic, Hocker drove his foot at the leering face. His boot heel caught the lower edge of the man’s chin, smashing his teeth together. The next time the man opened his mouth, a shower of teeth fell out, rattling like pellets onto Hocker’s chest.

  No matter what Hocker did to the man, he never showed any change of expression. His face was immobile, as inert as if he were having his fingernails clipped.

  How can he not feel the pain? Hocker wondered.

  But he didn’t take too long to think about it now. He was filled with fear for his life and for his own sanity if he did not get away from this thing!

  The man’s toothless mouth, still gnawing mindlessly and dropping splinters of teeth, pressed closer to Hocker’s face. The eyes seemed to drain the will from Hocker, and he knew he would be dead shortly if he didn’t get this guy off him. From the side, he could see motion as the man who had fallen finally made it back onto the porch.

  With one last effort, knowing this was it—he
would either break free or die within a second or two—Hocker swung his hand with the revolver down as hard as he could on the back of the man’s head. The impact sent a jolt of pain up his arm: he had no doubt he had cracked the man’s skull. In his mind, he pictured the revolver butt smashing an old, clay vase. Again and again, he slammed the revolver into the man’s head, and each blow did little more than force a shallow grunt from the man. Finally, though, as Hocker twisted beneath the man’s weight, he broke the hold on his leg and rolled free.

  Scrambling quickly to his feet, Hocker glanced at the second assailant, who was standing up with slow, stiff movements. With a quick turn, Hocker drove the toe of his boot into the fallen man’s chest, satisfied by the sharp breaking sound he heard on impact. Then, turning quickly, he ran to the front door and hit it hard with his shoulder. The door didn’t budge when he twisted the knob and leaned heavily against it. It was locked from the inside!

  Hocker looked behind him as both men struggled to regain their feet. They should both be dead! his mind screamed, but the one whose teeth he had kicked out didn’t even look stunned as he lurched from side to side, trying to catch his balance. The other one moved slowly and deliberately toward him, his hands stiffly flexing and unflexing.

  “Tasha! You goddamned bitch! Why’d you lock the fucking door!” he shouted as he slammed his fist repeatedly on the door. “Goddamn Tasha! Where the fuck are you?”

  Can I break it down, or will it hold? he wondered. If I was safely inside, would the door stop them or would these bloodless things tear through the door as if it were paper?

  A hailstorm of fists pounded the door as Hocker shouted until his throat was raw. He heard footsteps behind him and knew he was dead unless he tried something else. Spinning on his heel, and counting on his speed to save him, he dashed down the length of the porch, hoping to Christ the kitchen door wasn’t locked. These assholes may be tough, he thought, but I hope to Christ they’re slow!

  III

  Tasha surprised herself; she did exactly what she had told herself she would do. As soon as the first man’s foot touched the first step, she swung the front door shut and ran into the kitchen. For only a second or two, she hesitated, her eyes darting back and forth between the front door and the back door.

  She knew she could unlock the door and run like a son-of-a-bitch for the woods; once she was clear, she could find a phone and call home collect. Her father could easily arrange for someone to pick her up before the sun set that evening.

  The man out there by the limo had called out for “Harmon,” not the cop she had kicked in the balls. Maybe the “limo man” was a cop, too, and he and Winfield were both after this guy Harmon. And maybe she should trust this cop, when he tells her he’ll help get her out of any trouble she might be in. He may not know about that old duffer Hocker knocked out cold, or the truck they had stolen, or the three men in the woods…

  Oh, God, she thought as fear rippled her insides like an earthquake. I killed one of them, too! I’m in it just as deep as Hocker is!

  From the front of the house, she heard the blast of gunshots and then sounds of scrambling as Hocker fought on the porch with the two men. A part of her told her she had to go out there and help him, she couldn’t let them hurt Hocker who, in spite of his craziness and everything he had done, had taken care of her along the road. She couldn’t very well leave him out there alone to face those men!

  But what good would I be? she wondered, feeling a sharp stinging in her eyes as tears welled up and overflowed. What goddamned good am I to anyone? She was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, rocking back and forth on the tips of her toes. Her eyes were fastened on the back door. Escape, her mind whispered. Freedom!

  But the sounds coming from the front of the house were too loud to ignore. Her hands tightening into fisted balls, Tasha took several steps back toward the front door, but then something caught her eye and brought her up to an abrupt stop. The cellar door was open a crack, and through the narrow opening, she could see a sliver of sunlight slashing across the floor.

  In a flash, a single word filled Tasha’s mind: Help!

  There were two men down there and one of them was a cop! Any help was better than none at this point, she decided. She quickly went over to the door and raced down the stairs. The two men and the woman looked up at her with surprise in their eyes. They, too, had heard the gunshots, and the question of what was happening above them hung between them, unspoken.

  “Which shoe has the key?” Tasha snapped, her voice jittery as she knelt down in front of Winfield.

  “The left,” he said, turning slightly so she could reach it easily.

  Tasha hurriedly untied the lace and shook the shoe until a small, silver key fell out into her hand. Winfield twisted around so she could get at his hands cuffed behind his back.

  “What’s happening?” Winfield said, making a conscious effort to keep his voice steady. He could tell something had her all worked up, and if what agitated her would get them set free, he didn’t want to jeopardize it.

  “There’s some men out there,” Tasha said with a gasp. “Two of them are fighting with Hocker.”

  Dale and Winfield exchanged knowing glances, but it was Donna who said what all three of them immediately thought.

  “Rodgers!”

  “And company,” Dale added.

  Tasha’s hands were shaking so badly, she couldn’t get the key into the small hole. She huffed with frustration, barely noticing her blurred vision as tears filled her eyes. Finally, she got the key into the lock and gave it a twist. With a small clink, the cuffs fell to the dirt floor, and Winfield immediately jerked forward and began working to free his legs.

  “Get them,” he snapped when Tasha tried to help him.

  “Do you know what that man wants?” Tasha asked as she worked on the ropes holding Dale’s hands behind his back.

  “Yeah,” he said, grateful as he felt the bounds on his hands loosening. “He wants to make sure no one else finds out what we’ve found out about him.”

  The rope slackened enough so Dale could pull his hands free. As he worked to get his feet untied, Tasha moved over and started on Donna’s ropes. By the time Dale had his feet free, Winfield had put his shoe back on and was standing up, shaking his hands and bouncing from one foot to the other to restore his circulation.

  “This guy Hocker took my gun,” Winfield said when Dale stood up.

  Dale was about to reply, but the suddenly flow of blood to his cramped legs drained his head of blood, and a wave of dizziness seized him. Bright pinpoints of light squiggled across his field of vision, and darkness started to close in from the edges. He sagged back against the cellar wall, wishing frantically that the sensation would pass. Wouldn’t that be funny? he thought, to drop dead here of a heart attack, and wake up on one of Rodgers’ marble slabs!

  By the time Donna was free and trying her damnest to get the feeling back in her arms and legs, the dizziness had passed from Dale. Taking a deep breath of the damp cellar air, he joined Winfield, who was over in the far side of the cellar, searching through a pile of rusted junk for anything that could function as a weapon.

  Through the cellar floor, they heard the sudden clomping of footsteps as someone raced the length of the porch. This was followed by the steady clomp-clomp of heavy boots on the porch.

  “This’ll do,” Winfield said, grabbing the splintery shaft of an old shovel. The blade was coated with brick-red rust, and it looked like it just might cut through butter, if the butter had been left in the sun on an August afternoon.

  Dale could find nothing better than the rotted leg of an old sawhorse, but with that in hand he quickly followed Winfield up the stairs to the kitchen. Donna and Tasha were close behind them.

  Through the kitchen window, they saw someone flash by the window, and then Hocker was at the back door, his eyes rounded with fright as he banged his fist on the door window and shouted, “Unlock the goddamned door! Jesus Christ! They’re after m
e!”

  Winfield moved quickly to the door, flipped the lock, and swung the door inward. Just as he did, though, the man rounded the side of the house. One of them slammed like an express train into Hocker, pitching both of them onto the kitchen floor. In the wild scramble of fists and knees, Winfield couldn’t tell, at first, who was who. All he could see was a blur of action.

  Dale, though, knew exactly who—or what—had tackled Hocker, and he moved swiftly forward, raised his sawhorse leg over his head, and brought it down swiftly onto the head of the attacker.

  There was a loud crack, and Dale wasn’t sure if what broke was the piece of wood in his hand or the attacker’s skull. The blow seemed to get the man’s attention, and when he rolled over and looked up at Dale, Donna, who was standing right behind him, let out a piercing scream.

  “Mother of God!” Dale said, his voice sounding like a rasp on metal.

  The man’s eyes looked as though he should already be dead. There was a milky glaze over the pupils, and the eyeballs protruded from his skull as if his eyelids were gone! He couldn’t blink his eyes if he wanted to! But the round, dead ivory balls that glared up at her weren’t what made her scream. It was something worse.

  “Jesus Christ!” Dale sputtered as he staggered backward, letting the board drop to the floor. “Jesus! It’s Larry!”

  Winfield, too, recognized Larry Cole. In spite of the hollow cheeks and pasty complexion, there was no doubt that this was Larry Cole, the same man who, just last Friday night, he had pulled from the crumpled wreck of his car, dead! Winfield stood there, stunned by what he was seeing, as if this were a nightmare and if he could somehow push it away from his mind, it would go away.

  A wide smile split Larry’s face, but there wasn’t the slightest flicker of recognition in his eyes as he scrambled to get onto his hands and knees. He moved slowly and deliberately as he shifted his weight forward, treating the fallen Hocker as nothing more than a rug he had tripped over. As Larry struggled to stand, his mouth dropped open, and with a sudden, reflexive muscle spasm, clamped shut again with a hard, chomping sound.