by Scott Sigler
Below him was Rex Deprovdechuk’s house. Police tape across the door. Would the kid come back? Unknown, but where else to look? Rex had vanished, as had Alex Panos.
Staking out Alex’s apartment had paid off. Alex had come home. The result? Another dead member of Marie’s Children. The Issac boy had died up on the roof, but that was how things went.
Everyone dies eventually.
Beneath the heavy cloak, he felt a buzz from his pager. The house. He didn’t need to look at the pager to know this.
His hands did a fast, automatic pat-down: bow tight on his back; quiver secured, all ten shafts in place; Fabrique Nationale 5.7-millimeter handgun secure in the holster strapped to his left thigh; four loaded, twenty-round magazines at the small of his back; silver-coated Ka-Bar knife snug in the sheath on his right thigh; and minigrenades strapped to the bandolier across his chest — two concussion, two thermite, two shrapnel.
It had been a very long time since he’d had visitors. He had to get home, show them some hospitality.
Bryan stood at the bottom of the basement stairs. He wasn’t sure if he could move. Every atom in his body screamed at him to stop. His dreams, where he’d killed people, eaten people, those had been bad, perhaps the worst things he’d ever experienced.
But those hadn’t been the only dreams.
The dream of being dragged … dragged into this basement. Hurt, wounded, afraid, bleeding — dragged into this basement by a monster.
A monster that could be down here, waiting.
No, the monster was gone; Bryan had watched it leave.
But when would it return?
The house alarm wasn’t as loud down here. His flashlight beam bounced through the blackness, illuminating a glossy wooden floor, crown molding, even a fireplace. The long space looked like a small ballroom from days gone by.
At the back of the room, he saw a door. Engraved letters gleamed from a brass plaque. They spelled out: RUMPUS ROOM.
Bryan walked toward the door.
Pookie had to hurry, he knew that, but he couldn’t look away — he needed just a few seconds to take it all in. Everything his flashlight lit up seemed to reek of money. Turn-of-the-century money. The place looked like it was taken out of a movie from the days of the lumber barons, the gold barons, the whatever barons. Back then, men had built places like this for their wives and daughters, to impress the city or simply to let everyone know just how rich they were. Pookie was standing in the nineteenth-century equivalent of a red sports car.
A heavy staircase rose up to his right. To his left, something glowed from within a wide, open doorway. Pookie stepped through. Inside of a marble fireplace guarded by two knee-high brass sphinxes, dying coals gave off a faint, flickering light. His flashlight beam played off endless splendor: a sparkling crystal chandelier; polished redwood paneling with hand-carved trim; marble floors with thick grains of granite and thin streaks of gold; gleaming brass fixtures; ornate picture frames showing faces of spooky-looking rich dudes.
Outside, he heard the distinctive roar of an approaching Harley, an oncoming Doppler effect that didn’t transition to the fadeaway because the engine idled, then stopped. Pookie pinched his flashlight under his right arm. He pulled out his phone and dialed with his left hand even as he continued to turn, his right hand pointing the Glock before him.
He stopped when his flashlight illuminated an open door.
Through the door were stairs leading down.
The phone rang only twice before Black Mr. Burns answered: “I’m here, man, but I’m flipping out,” he said. “Where the hell are you?”
“Inside.”
“Want me to come in?”
“Not yet,” Pookie said. “Get on the porch and stay there. Don’t let anyone in, not even cops. I’ll call if I need you.”
Pookie hung up. He had to trust that John could manage his fear and control anything that came up. Pookie took a breath, then started down the stairs.
Footsteps. Heavy ones. Bryan shut off his flashlight. He aimed his Sig Sauer back across the ballroom floor toward the base of the stairs. He saw a flashlight beam sliding down the steps, flicking around, followed by legs, then a portly, black-sweater-clad belly that could only belong to one man.
The flashlight beam whipped across the walls, then landed squarely in Bryan’s eyes.
Bryan blinked, held up a hand to block the light. “Pooks, do you mind?”
The beam dropped to Bryan’s feet.
“Clauser! You are seriously chapping my ass. Come on, man, we have to get out of here, now.”
Bryan turned his back to Pookie, played his own beam across the dull-brass plaque. The letters of RUMPUS ROOM gleamed and danced.
“Through here,” he said.
“Bryan, no. Dude, come on, the game is over and we lost. If we’re caught here, we are so screwed.”
“I’m not leaving until I figure this out, so you might as well help.”
Pookie sighed and walked forward to stand at Bryan’s right shoulder.
“Clauser, you are such an A-W-G-M-K.”
“That a new one?”
“Yeah, I made it up just now. It means you are an Asshole Who’ll Get Me Killed.” Pookie played his beam across the wooden door’s gloss, then let it rest on the intricate brass handle. “Bryan, just tell me one thing. Is this worth going to prison for?”
“It is,” Bryan said.
“And you got the memo about what happens to cops in prison?”
Bryan nodded. “It’s worth that, too.”
“Awesome,” Pookie said. “I was afraid you’d say that. I don’t suppose this door is open?”
“Nope.”
“Double awesome. Well, I guess we can say aloha to Honolulu Homicide.”
Bryan closed his eyes and shook his head. His career was over, he knew that, but he didn’t need to drag Pookie along for the ride. “Pooks, maybe you should just go.”
“A little late for that, Bri-Bri. I’m already fired, and you already said this meant enough to you that you’d go to prison for it. I’ll finish the job.”
Pookie was still all-in. There was no point in arguing, Bryan would have done the same for him.
“I think what we need is on the other side,” Bryan said. “Let’s figure out how to get this door open.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d attacked his house. Every ten years or so, one or two of them got stupid enough to forget what happened to the last one or two, and they came for him. They’d always known right where his house was … all they had to do was come over and kill him.
They had tried the back door, the windows, even the roof. Over the years he’d sealed all of those things up. As well as he could, anyway — some of them were so strong there was little you could do to keep them out. One industrious little monster had even tunneled in, going right through the basement concrete.
He’d killed them all.
The tunneler was still his favorite. The stupid bastard had dug right up into the rumpus room. Savior hadn’t even had to move him — he’d just cut the intruder’s spinal cord so he couldn’t walk, then went to work.
Oh, how that one had screamed.
They screamed, they begged, they threatened. And yet for all their useless words, they never — ever — gave up the information Savior most needed to know.
Such was the way of things.
The pager told him the front door had been breached, so he approached from the roof of the building across the street. He looked down at his front porch. Below the peaked roof, he saw a man standing in front of the house’s front doors — a black man wearing a purple motorcycle jacket, holding a gun that he kept pointed to the ground.
The man turned. Streetlights played off something hanging around his neck, bouncing off his chest.
A flash of gold.
A badge?
Perhaps the intruders had already left. It wasn’t the first time the police had come to his house after a break-in, but he had to be careful. You neve
r knew when the bastards would get clever and try a new tactic.
He pulled off his cloak, wrapping the pistol, the grenade bandolier, the magazines and other gear inside. He stuffed the whole package in a space between an air conditioner and the roof wall, out of sight. Everything except the knife. That he moved to the small of his back, under his shirt — maybe a single knife didn’t seem like much against the monsters, but it had never failed him before.
And, sometimes, the knife was just plain more fun.
Bryan watched Pookie slide a thin piece of metal into the lock. “Anything?”
“Yes,” Pookie said. “This gives me an idea — in Blue Balls, all cops will be able to pick locks. Makes plots so much easier.” He stood and put the tools in his pocket. “I give up. Just kick the fucking thing.”
The door looked far too heavy for that. Whatever was behind it, the owner didn’t want anyone getting in.
“Pooks, look at this thing, it’s like a bank vault.”
Pookie let out a snort of a laugh. “Bryan, you kicked in the front door of this house, right?”
Bryan nodded.
“By chance, did you look at said door before you treated it to a taste of your Bryan booties?”
Bryan thought of telling Pookie how he’d been distracted because he thought the house was talking to him, but figured that now wasn’t the time. “I didn’t really look at it. I just, you know … I just had to get in.”
Pookie pointed his flashlight beam at the door’s handle. “Then do me a favor. Realize that you just have to get in here.”
“But, Pooks, I’m telling you that—”
“Would you just kick the thing? Trust me for once, will you? Kick that motherfucker with everything you got.”
This wasn’t the time for games, but Pookie would just keep at it until Bryan caved. He stepped back, took a breath, then raised his left foot and pushed-kicked out as hard as he could.
It made a big bang, but the door didn’t budge.
“See? I told you.”
Pookie pointed his flashlight to the door handle. The wood around it had cracked. “Hit it again.”
Bryan didn’t understand. The door must have looked stronger than it actually was. They’d caught a break. He reared back and kicked again.
The door flew open.
Bryan and Pookie pointed their guns into the darkness beyond. They slowly stepped through.
Something in there. For a second, Bryan couldn’t make it out.
Then Pookie’s flashlight beam lit it up.
Bryan fired three shots, the gun’s roar sharp and deafening in the confined space.
John heard the gunshots. In that same second, he started to shake. He should never have left his apartment. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have come here! He felt dizzy before he realized he’d stopped breathing. He sucked in a breath so big it wheezed like a marathon runner crossing the finish line.
John stepped into the dark house, feet finding spots around the broken oak door. The alarm blared a constant, undeniable sound.
Pookie and Bryan could be in trouble. John had to go toward the gunshots, he had to, but he couldn’t—
—his cell phone buzzed, making him twitch with surprise. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and answered.
“Pookie! You okay?”
“We’re fine,” Pookie said. “Just stay out there.”
John returned to the porch. He leaned against the waist-high wooden railing opposite the door. He saw a young couple across the street, huddling with each other against the night’s cold; they stared at the mansion. And farther to the right, a homeless guy, standing there and watching. The lookie-loos had begun to gather.
“Pooks, hurry up,” John said. “With this alarm, a black and white will be here any second and the natives are getting restless.”
“We’re almost done,” Pookie said. “Just stay there.”
Pookie hung up. John sucked in another ragged breath as he slid the phone into his pocket. He moved closer to the broken door, staying as far back in the porch’s shadows as he could.
The Rumpus Room
Pookie’s heart seemed to bounce all over his chest, enough to make him wonder if left-arm pain wasn’t next, followed by his ticker giving him the bird and just shutting down in protest.
He slid his phone back in his pocket, then tilted his head toward the gunshot victim. “Congratulations, Terminator. You just terminated a stuffed bear.”
“Fuck you,” Bryan said. “And that’s not a bear.”
Their flashlight beams played off the target of Bryan’s gunfire. It was big, and it was stuffed, as evidenced by the dry strands of dark orange fur floating in their flashlight beams … but Bryan was right about one thing — it wasn’t a bear.
Bears don’t have opposable thumbs.
Bears don’t have four eyes.
It had rear legs the size of oil barrels, and long front arms that hung down to the ground. It would have walked half upright, gorilla style. Two bullets had hit the body — one in the shoulder and one in the thigh — ripping off chunks of orange fur and exposing a white, Styrofoam-like material beneath. Bryan’s third shot had shattered one of the glass eyes. Two eyes to the right of the squished nose, two to the left — the eyes were so fucked up, so out there, that they almost made you miss the mouth full of pointy, inch-long teeth.
Pookie reached out a finger and poked the thing, just to make sure it was, indeed, truly dead. The fur felt dry, stiff and brittle.
“This is messed up,” he said. “Erickson makes giant jackalopes?”
Bryan picked up his shell casings and put them in his pocket. “What’s a jackalope?” He moved to the wall inside the door, sliding hands searching for a light switch.
“Half jackrabbit, half antelope,” Pookie said. “It’s fake taxidermy, a rabbit with antelope horns. People with nothing better to do put different animals together to make weird shit. Erickson is doing something like that.”
Pookie heard the click of a heavy switch. The room filled with light.
The bear-thing wasn’t alone.
“Dude,” Pookie said, “this is pretty fucked-up right here.”
Jebediah Erickson’s collection of fake taxidermy lined the room’s walls. A dozen creatures, each as monstrous as Ol’ Four Eyes. And standing between some of those creatures, five more that didn’t look fake, and were even more nightmarish because of their familiarity.
He had stuffed people.
Bryan walked up to one. “I don’t know much about taxidermy, but this guy looks real.”
Pookie walked over to join Bryan. A man, holding a crowbar. A few strands of hair clung to the crowbar’s nail-pulling edge. Blue glass eyes stared out from the dead face, each looking in a slightly different direction. He wore tan slacks, brown loafers and a white shirt with a blue Izod sweater vest. His brittle blond hair was feathered in a style straight out of the ’80s.
Bryan pointed to a white fleck glued to the edge of the crowbar. “Piece of a tooth?”
Pookie leaned forward to look. “Yeah. A kid’s tooth, I think.”
If this was real, which Pookie doubted, the taxidermist was a long ways from getting his union certification. The man’s skin looked taut and leathery. He wore a smile, but Pookie couldn’t be sure if that was from the too-tight skin or the “artist’s” sense of humor.
Bryan reached out and gently poked the stuffed man’s right ear — it was tilted, barely attached. “Can you get DNA info out of something that’s been stuffed?”
Pookie shrugged. “No idea. You thinking this is a Zed?”
Bryan nodded. “Too bad we can’t test it.”
“We can,” Pookie said. “Robin has one of those RapScan doohickeys at her apartment. It’s worth a shot.” Pookie reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small evidence envelope. He held it up. “You gotta do the honors.”
“Pussy,” Bryan said as he took the envelope. He gently pulled the ear off the man and slid it inside. The
envelope went into his pocket.
He turned, then pointed down and to the right. “I don’t like the looks of that.”
He was pointing at a little black girl, stiff and rigid, forever frozen in her final pose. She held a knife in her left hand and a fork in her right. Her skin had started to split on the left forearm, pulling away from the white foam material underneath.
Bryan tilted his head back and sniffed at the air. He turned in place and sniffed again, his nose wrinkling.
“Pooks, you smell that?”
Pookie sniffed. The faint odor of ammonia? That, and some other things he couldn’t name. “Yeah, I do. You find the source, I’ll get some shots of these things.”
Pookie pulled out his phone and snapped pictures: the little girl; the crowbar-man; the other stuffed people; a massive, muscular five-hundred-pound thing that looked an awful lot like a predatory human-beetle hybrid; a woman in a summer dress who was normal save for skin covered with inch-long scales that glimmered soft, rainbow reflections of the lights above; a black-furred thing on all fours that was about as big as a German shepherd, but with sharp, foot-long pincers instead of jaws.
“Pooks, come check this out.”
Bryan was at the back of the room, staring through an open door. Pookie joined him, looking in at a ten-foot-by-twenty-foot room made of old, ill-fitting bricks. In the middle sat a stainless-steel workbench. Metal workshop shelves full of boxes and pull-out drawers lined the walls. A closed, old-style bank vault door — complete with a spinning wheel-lock — took up the entire far wall.
On the center of the workbench sat a rig holding an unstrung bow. One end of the bench had a polished steel rack holding twenty-four gleaming arrowheads in four neat rows of six. The bench’s other end held a custom gun rack loaded with two matched handguns and a blocky, rifle-sized weapon.
“He’s got two five-sevens,” Bryan said, pointing to the Fabrique Nationale pistols. “Serious shit.”