by Alan Spencer
WASHING MACHINE
HOLOCAUST
Alan Spencer
Novels by Alan Spencer
Psycho Therapy
B-Movie Reels
B-Movie Attack
The Three Days
Sherry
No Need to Breathe (Anthology)
Death Depot
The Body Cartel
Cider Mill Vampires (Caleb Anthony Paranormal Series #1)
This Town Eats Everything (Caleb Anthony Paranormal Series #2)
Zombies and Power Tools
Ashes in Her Eyes Uncut Edition
Inside the Perimeter: Scavengers of the Dead
1
Larry Koche had four hours remaining of his final shift at the self-service laundry mat called "Get Loaded." Tonight was the bookend of a long career as a General Manager. Larry's dream job was to sit on his ass and get paid. It wasn't prestigious, it wasn't exciting, but managing a laundry service was certainly easy.
Larry's favorite word.
Easy.
His father, Barry, operated a tollbooth while other people his age fought wars for America or churned out cars on assembly lines. The pot-bellied man taught Larry real American values. The sit on your ass and get paid values.
Barry once said to Larry in his senility at the old folk's home, "My butt anchored America every hour I sat on it. You're doing the family proud by what you're accomplishing at that laundry mat. Don't let them get a lick of sweat out of your back. Never ever hurt your back for anybody. Working hard is for chumps. They stick it to you in the end, no matter what you do. Don't you dare let them stick it in your ass. Boy, does it hurt."
The notion of upholding the Koche family values was in dire straights. Unemployment loomed on the horizon for Larry. Soon, he'd have to get a real job. He wouldn't be the butt that anchored down American anymore.
The fear of real work kept him up at nights recently. He smoked through pack after pack of cigarettes trying to work his mind around the riddle of avoiding hard work. What other lazy ass job could he get that would pay out seventeen fifty an hour? If he was going to make rent, he'd need at least that much, no less.
He was so busy thinking about these things he failed to notice one of the washing machines in the room had suddenly turned on. It was all the way in the back. Nobody had turned it on. It just came on by itself. It could've been malfunctioning. He could hear loud banging, as if someone stuffed a pair of heavy boots inside of it. He didn't care. Broken. Not broken. The machines could run until they burned out. He would be unemployed in a matter of hours. Fuck the machines, he thought.
Larry was curious about one thing. Why had every old washing machine been replaced with a new machine just three days ago? They were the ugliest dreary gray color he had ever seen. Why spend the money when the previous machines worked just fine?
Bored and sitting alone on his chair at the front desk where he often broke dollars into quarters, or gave customers mini-packets of laundry detergent, or shot the breeze with bored patrons waiting for their laundry to be done, Larry's mind kept spinning questions. Like why did they lock up the place during business hours and still keep Larry on the job? He sat at the desk watching TV and twiddling his thumbs. Didn't the place want to make money? Why lock out the customers? The place was being bought out, Larry was being let go, but the place was still open for business. So why lock the doors and keep him here?
It was a question he couldn't answer.
He hadn't met his new boss in person, a smooth talking man named Mr. Kelly. The man spoke briefly with Larry over the phone.
"Next Tuesday will be your last day. Man your station. Keep the doors locked. Don't ask questions. Do your job. We'll mail you your final paycheck by the end of the week. That check will also include a severance package. That will conclude our business together."
Strange shit was going down at "Get Loaded." Like why hadn't Larry seen Bob Steers, the previous owner, in two weeks? The last time Larry chatted with him, it was also over the phone.
"Sorry Larry. I got bought out. They made me an offer I can't refuse. I can retire early. It's insane how much money they gave me. I'm off to Texas to meet that lady I met on that Internet site. She says she'll be wearing red panties. Hot stuff. My dick's already standing at attention. Anyway, you take care of yourself, Larry. Get drunk and laid. You'll feel better afterwards. I know I always do."
Bang, Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang.
Bang, Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang.
"Goddamn washing machine," Larry bickered.
He walked to the back room behind the front desk. He surveyed the shelves of supplies. They were barren of detergent, laundry sheets, bleach, and even the mop and bucket was gone. His new boss literally wanted him to stand in the building and do nothing. Wedge his thumb comfortably up his ass.
Larry was confused. Why would they waste their money on him standing in a locked up building? Corporate takeovers involved cutting costs and finding new ways to create revenue. They should've sent him packing the day the place was bought out. They already took down the faded letters G E T L O A D E D from the front of the building. What would they replace that with?
G E T F U C K E D.
He'd work at a place called GET FUCKED. It probably didn't pay worth a damn. Not seventeen fifty an hour.
What am I doing here? Most young people would ask themselves that question being at a dead end job. What am I doing here? Not Larry Koche. He ignored that voice and imagined coming home to a television set playing the Red Socks game and a six pack of ice cold beer ready to be enjoyed. A good game and beer quelled the question: What am I doing here?
Not tonight.
What was he doing here when the building was locked up to the general public?
He ventured out beyond his desk to the vending machine. He was getting antsy. If he didn't have anybody to talk to, the ants set in big time. Larry shoved the three quarters he stole from the register (and why have a register full of cash if the doors were locked and customers weren't welcome?) and treated himself to a Coke. The fizzy sugar rush delivered temporary relief.
The question remained.
What am I doing here?
To collect his fucking severance pay, that's what. If he walked out now, he would miss out on that nice chunk of change. He was single. No one else was around to share the burden of survival. His wife left him five years ago. The divorce was a strange story. They went on a cruise to Jamaica. When Larry was passed out drunk in their room, Paula ventured to the special singles party just to see what it was like to be single again. She loved it. Between ten dollar appletinis and men buying her fun flavored shots, she got laid. The meat must've been put to her real good, because she was a different woman after that night.
Larry didn't know about the affair until they got home and she moved out. Getting her hole stuffed got her thinking, Larry concluded. Out with the old, in with the new, she kept saying even up to the point the divorce papers were signed. It was her parting words. Out with the old, in with the new. Clichéd bitch. She wanted to live like a teenager again. Their daughter, Norma, was grown up. She didn't care about the situation. Norma was a nurse in Michigan, married to a man named Chad Redman, a radiologist. Norma wasn't a shining example of Koche blood. She had ambition. Norma got that from her mother. She sure didn't get it from him.
So Larry's problems were his own. Nobody else could help him with his financial troubles. He really did have to get his priorities in order, standing there, sipping a Coke in an empty, locked up laundry mat. Larry needed an "ah-hah" moment.
It didn't come. Ideas lived and died in his mind, though they mostly died.
His present concerns wouldn't add up to jack shit in about five minutes.
The washing machines would take over everything.
2
Larry sat back down on his stool behind the front desk. He watched TV. A reality show about a boss trying to act like his lowly employees and make a connection with them while remaining undercover. The scenes were contrived. No rich guy wanted to do anybody's shit work. Pretend all they want, Larry could see right the fuck through it. Assholes wanted to be on TV. Rich people were bored and wanted something fun to do. Then they'd go back to their cushy lives after the TV show was over.
Rich fucks.
The question of why he was here and the looming concerns about his future vanished when the lights in the room were turned off. The laundry mat was bathed in black.
"Hey, who turned out the lights?"
Bang Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang.
Bang Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang.
Multiple shoes scuffing the floor. Voices were held just below a whisper. Chitter-chatter, like moths crashing into each other.
"Who's back there? Mr. Kelly?"
Mr. Kelly was the only one Larry figured would have the keys to the place, besides himself. He wasn't exactly scared, though it got his heart rate up.
"Hello? We're closed. If you need any help, please come to the front desk. I'd be happy to help you with any problems you have. Even though I don't know how you got in. Every door is locked, pal."
It sounded like a metal shelf being dragged against the floor. More moths crashing into each other. Was that a sharp laugh mixed in with the whispers? It was coming from behind the back room door.
"You're trespassing. You're not allowed in here. The back exit is locked. How did you get in here? I'm going to call the police, that's it."
The mention of police silenced them.
If these people had something to fear from the police, they were absolutely up to no good.
Call the police Then unlock the front door and wait outside. This shit is too weird.
Outside wasn't any better. He was in the bad part of town. This late, it wasn't safe to wait in the street. Drug dealers made deals up and down the block in this part of Detroit. Crack heads skulked in the shadows, staggering up to you like ghosts with a bad gait to win crack money, or crack. Prostitutes strutted up and down the area with nothing better going for them than the fact they owned a vagina. No, he had to face these people down. No other way out.
He had walked in the middle of the laundry mat without realizing it. He was surrounded by washing machines.
Bang Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang.
Bang Bang, Bang-Bang-Bang.
He could see into the only running machine. He watched the waters swirl together. Bubbles gathered in the glass window. It was so dark, he couldn't tell if someone was washing their whites or their darks.
That's it, he realized. Maybe the back exit wasn't locked. A customer tried to get into the front. They tried the door, it was locked, so they tried the back door instead. Why else would they be doing a load of laundry?
But why hadn't he seen them come in?
And was that a face in the glass window of the machine?
A head?
It was so dark, and the machine was spinning things around so fast, it was hard to tell. He had to be seeing things.
No, no, no.
He couldn't deny it. Red painted fingernails. The crooked stump of a wrist. Another head banged the glass, this one a man's. Were the eyes blinking? The mouth was moving. Did the eyes look right at Larry?
Larry froze. It wasn't his nerves. If he had his way right now, he would be out that door among the crack heads, prostitutes, and drug dealers. They were the better alternative. Sell him crack. Sell him pussy. So what?
An inch of an axe head poked out from his sternum. Somebody had snuck up behind him. The axe cutting into him sounded like two pieces of wood crashing. The person tried to reclaim their axe, but it was wedged against the bones in his sternum nice and tight.
They axe wielder was breathing against his neck.
His lips grazed Larry's ear.
Red patters rained down on the black and white checkered tile floor.
The machine kept up its cycle. Spinning, mixing, and cleaning, Larry noticed an arm cut off at the elbow, then a hand pressed against the glass, banging to get out. Swept up by the turn of the cycle, two large breasts slammed into the glass. An empty torso without a neck banged the sides of the machine. Cycling faster, a medley of tongues, fingers, and internal organs were spinning, putting Larry in an awful trance.
The axe was reared back. The triangle wedge of steel sank back into Larry and coughed out the other side. Before anything else happened, he heard his attacker speak.
"This is only the beginning, Larry. Only—the—beginning."
3
Hands grasped the edge of the open washing machine. Two other sets of hands were trying to bring Larry's neck down to shove him inside of it. Another set of hands lifted up his feet so he couldn't resist.
"No! Noooooooo! I don't want in there! Just kill me! Just fucking kill me!"
The front of the machine was slippery with cherry lines of blood.
His blood.
Head first, he was stuffed into the machine. His back snapped, his spine breaking—or was that his imagination? He couldn't move. He was bleeding from the stomach. He had no guts. Where were his guts? Half his brains caked the front of his shirt. His skull was an open bowl.
No brains. No guts.
How did he think?
How did he feel?
How did he exist?
The front of the machine was slammed closed. Fingers hit buttons. Wash: Warm-Cold. Spin Speed: High (They fucked him up good). Wash Time: 45 minutes (Might as well be eternity).
The basket spun, breaking every bone in his body. Larry drowned in the water, yet he wouldn't die.
4
Spring fresh scented fabric softener. Lilac detergent. Liquid bleach. She was drinking from every plastic detergent bottle from the shelf of stock at "Get Loaded." She was naked, except for her torn black panty hose. Her bristle blonde hair flowed down to her shoulder blades. Her large breasts were caked in drying liquid detergent. The woman was a stranger to Larry.
Guzzling down blue detergent. Burping up bubbles. Drinking it with that horrific, pained face, she kept drinking more and more.
"This will kill me." She said between gulps. "This absolutely will kill me."
She poured bleach over her face next. It fizzed, burning her skin down to the bone.
"This will kill me!" She screamed from popping lips and exposed, bubbling sinuses. "This WILL kill me!"
"Only we can kill you," the voice of the man who drove the axe between his shoulder blades purred. Larry didn't see the man in the room. He only heard the words. "Only we can kill you for good. But we won't let you die. Never. Never ever."
The woman's face was a bleeding skeleton. Her hair was slipping off her head, guided on by the flowing mudslide of flesh streaming down her bony features. Blue detergent was billowing out her eye socket holes and oozing out of her mouth.
"Only we can kill you."
"This will kill me," she gargled.
"Only we can kill you."
"This will kill me."
"Only we can kill you."
Larry's eyes tripled. The woman was standing there, then suddenly it was as if her body was in a spin cycle. Her head, arms, and waist all turned at a 360 degree angle at crazy speeds. Limbs spinning, they were wrenched from her torso, hitting the walls so hard, they detonated.
More unbelievable, Larry had watched it all happen as a severed head bobbing in a washing machine. The rest of his body was in pieces floating in the washing machine water.
Larry's head was dunked underwater when the cycle suddenly sped up. The basket spun at a hundred miles an hour. That's when everything turned bright gory red.
5
Larry woke up sore from head to toe. He was a living bruise. His head rang with the fury of a cheap rotgut whiskey hangover. He was sitting on
his recliner in his living room. The television was playing a baseball game. His eyes hadn't focused enough to figure out what teams were playing. He was doing his best to piece together what had happened before this moment. Then it occurred to him.
I finished my last day at work and got shit faced plastered. I had some horrible dreams. Crazy horrible fucked up dreams. I've been in the laundry business for far too long.
Then it didn't occur to him.
The television was a Zenith. He didn't own a Zenith. The recliner he was on was black leather. The recliner he owned wasn't black leather. The carpet was an ugly beige shag. He had wood floors.
This wasn't his house.
The phone rang.
His heart pumping hard, he answered the phone that was placed on top of a TV tray beside the recliner. Words whispered through the receiver, though Larry could tell the speaker wanted to do more than whisper, "I'm going to kill you. I'm coming right for you. What are you going to do about it?"
Larry kept hold of the phone. It was soldered to his hand. He would use it like a brick if he had to and really bash somebody with it.
The front door was blocked by planks of wood nailed in place. The windows were the same. The lights flickered off. Only a few propane lanterns worked in the house. Moving shadows lurked about every corner. More than one person roamed the house. He could hear them shift.
I'm coming right for you.
What are you going to do about it?
A chainsaw revved. It came from the kitchen. So close, he could smell the gasoline fumes and the cigarette smell wafting off the chainsaw wielder's clothing.
The plastic phone in his hand was ridiculous.
A hammer swung and barely missed Larry's nose. The attacker was a woman with wild black hair. She was gothic looking by her make-up, her features playing a feature film of insanity.
She slobbered and screamed, "Split open your dome! Spliiiiiiiiiiiiiit it!"
Larry retreated to the nearby hallway. The broken up floor of shredded carpet proved hazardous. Every other step, his foot broke through the wood. Not before long he tripped, hitting the ground hard.