by Jack Kilborn
He was older than Felix, maybe mid-thirties, and in no danger of ever winning a beauty pageant. Tall and pudgy, like he’d never lost his baby fat, sporting a plump, almost feminine face, which had a strange appearance to it that Felix realized was a complete lack of facial hair. No stubble. No eyebrows. Not even eyelashes. In contrast, the black hair on his head looked like a wig.
Felix unrolled the window with one hand. The other he stuck under his seat, finding his nine millimeter Beretta.
“Heard you talkin’ ‘bout the Rushmore Inn,” the hairless guy said. “You payin’ for information?”
“Top dollar.”
The man looked around, uneasy. His denim overalls were splotched with brown stains. “This ain’t a good place to talk. You stayin’ nearby?”
Felix considered what to say. He decided on the truth, since the chance of learning something outweighed the potential danger.
“Place called the Cozynook Motel. Outside of Slatyfork.”
“What room?”
Did he really want the hunter to know his room number? What about Cameron?
The hell with Cameron.
“One ten.”
“I can come by, hour or so.”
Felix tried to play it cool. Maybe the hunter knew something. Or maybe he just wanted to round up some buddies, drop by, and rob him. In these parts, apparently strangers weren’t missed.
“I’m looking for this woman,” he said, flashing Maria’s picture. “Have you seen her?”
The hunter studied the picture. Felix studied his eyes.
“She one of them try-atha-leets?”
“You’ve seen her?”
The hunter shrugged. “All kinda look the same. But if she was at the Rushmore, she probably got in some deep shit. I’ll come by later, we talk some more.”
If he did have information, Felix didn’t plan on leaving him out of his sight. He’d done that once before, and the guy wound up a thousand yard smear on Highway 39.
“I was planning on checking out tonight,” Felix lied. “If you have something to tell me, we could take a walk in the woods.”
The hunter shook his head. “Woods ain’t safe ‘round here.”
“How about we take a ride, then? Drive around for a bit?”
“Maybe. What’s your blood type?”
Felix blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Blood type. You know. Type A, type B, type O.”
What the hell kind of question is that?
Then he remembered the old drunk said something about blood types.
Was there a connection?
“I’m A. A positive.”
John sucked on his lower lip, then blew it out. “Okay. We can take a ride.”
The big man walked around the front of the truck, and Felix noted the large hunting knife strapped to his leg. When he climbed in, the cab bounced from his weight.
All of the sudden this seemed like a very bad idea.
“We drivin’ or what?”
Felix had to let go of the gun to turn the ignition. His initial feeling of hope was replaced by uneasiness. This guy was so big his head touched the ceiling.
“What’s your name?” Felix asked.
The hunter grunted. “I’m John.”
“Do you know where the Rushmore Inn is, John?”
“Not here. I’ll tell you when we’re moving.”
“Why? Are you afraid?”
John leaned over, his brown eyes slightly crossing. His breath was warm and smelled like decay. “Damn right I’m afraid. And you should be, too.” Then he smiled, revealing brown, crooked teeth and gums that looked like raw hamburger. “Y’all should be scared as hell.”
# # #
She has the dream. Again.
In it, the man has two heads and three arms. His second head is smaller, misshapen, with a mouth crammed full of crooked teeth.
He climbs on top of her, one head giggling, the other drooling.
Others watch.
Other monsters.
A man whose fingers are fused together, like flippers. The bushy unibrow dividing his oversized forehead makes him look Neanderthal. He has a tiny nose and tiny ears, out of proportion with his large face. He claps his flippers, applauding the show.
Another man with a pointed head, thin on the top and bulbous on the bottom, like an eggplant. He hops from foot to foot, anxiously awaiting his turn.
One man has a split down the middle of his face, as if someone hit him in the nose and mouth with an ax. He snorts through the combined nose/mouth opening, spit and snot spraying.
Another man, naked and disgustingly obese, is propped up in an old, rusty wheelchair. Instead of knees, he has tiny, baby feet attached to his thighs. His right arm is also no larger than a baby’s. It’s waving at her as he smiles.
There are others. Many others. Many that are even worse.
She doesn’t scream. They like it when she screams.
Instead, clenches her fists, her fingernails digging into her palms, her teeth biting her own tongue, willing herself to wake up.
Her eyes open wide.
The creatures are still there.
This isn’t a dream.
She’s been awake all along.
# # #
Letti Pillsbury glanced in the rearview mirror at her mother and daughter in the backseat, huddled over the videogame. It made her feel both happy and sad, and more than a little dishonest. But she and Florence had agreed not to tell Kelly until after the Iron Woman event.
One thing at a time.
She shifted her eyes back to the road, and then to the map. It wasn’t a real map. In fact, it looked like a photocopy of a hand drawing, and a poorly done one at that. Letti had called the inn yesterday and spoken to the female proprietor to get better directions.
“Ten point six miles southwest down 219 once you pass 55. The road isn’t marked, so use your odometer. It’s on the right. We’re so looking forward to having y’all.”
The odometer was creeping up on ten point five, but there was nothing out here but hills and forest, and it was getting increasingly more difficult to see as the sun went down. Letti questioned, not for the first time, her decision to stay this far away from the competition, instead of at the event hotel. But money was tight and would only get tighter, and when the Rushmore Inn brochure arrived in the mail, stating they’d won free rooms, she couldn’t pass it up. Letti didn’t even remember entering the contest, but apparently she’d checked some box while filling out the extensive paperwork for the competition. The inn was really out of the way, but even if it had the worst amenities in the history of bed and breakfasts, it was still a lifesaver.
Letti slowed down, squinting into the trees, looking for the road. At first, the endless forest and jutting mountains had taken her breath away with their beauty. But after hours of the spectacular view, she began to feel intimidated. Letti hoped the race course was clearly marked, because if one of them got lost in this wilderness, they’d be lost forever.
When the odometer hit the magic number, Letti rolled onto the narrow shoulder and coasted to a stop.
“Are we here?” Kelly said, poking her head up through the space in the front seats and giving JD a pat.
Letti checked the numbers again. Then she rechecked the map.
“According to this, yes. But there’s nothing here.”
“There.” Kelly pointed. “See the tire tracks?”
Letti followed her daughter’s finger, and saw two barely visible tracks, almost completely hidden by weeds, leading into the forest between a small gap in the trees.
“That’s not a road,” Florence said. “That’s not even a trail.”
“It matches up to the map. And look.”
Letti pointed to a tiny sign, hanging from a tree. It read RUSHMORE INN.
“Why would they paint the sign green?” Florence asked. “It blends into the trees. And it’s so small.”
Letti turned the wheel and pressed the gas.
�
�Letti, you can’t be serious. What if we get stuck?”
“We’re driving an Audi. It’s all-wheel drive.”
Florence clucked her tongue—something she did when she was displeased. “Let’s go back into town. I’m sure there are other rooms available. I’ll pay for it.”
Letti bristled at her mother’s words, and any doubts she had about this road vanished, replaced by anger. Pay for it? Now Letti was determined to see this through, even if they had to drive over a log jam to do it.
The Audi’s tires dug in and performed as advertised, traversing the bumps, divots, and rocks without getting stuck. But the suspension left something to be desired, the shocks bouncing them around like a carnival ride. Twenty yards into the woods the sun disappeared, forcing Letti to flick on her brights. Though overgrown, the path was relatively straight, and no trees or large obstacles got in their way.
Boy, it’s dark.
In southern Illinois, on the Great Plains, even a moonless night was starlit. But this was like swimming in ink. Letti had the window cracked open, and she could practically feel the darkness seeping in.
Then the car jolted, the front end tilting downward. Letti whacked her head against the steering wheel, causing the horn to honk, and JD bounced against the dashboard, uttering a surprised yelp.
Letti pushed herself back into her seat, but the car still canted on an angle, like they were driving down a steep hill.
“Mom?”
“We went into a hole, or a ditch, or something. Are you both okay?”
JD hopped onto Letti’s seat, his big paws between her legs. He growled at the driver’s side window.
“JD! Down!”
The growl became a sharp bark, and the dog’s entire body tensed. Letti stared where JD was looking, out into the woods. She saw only blackness.
“JD? What’s wrong, boy?”
Kelly patted his head, her voice full of concern. “There’s something out there, Mom. He senses it.”
Letti put a hand on his collar. JD was baring his teeth, and he stood rigid as a statue, his hackles up. The last time she’d seen the dog act this way was a few months ago, when someone tried to break into their house at three am. It turned out to be their drunken neighbor, mistaking their house for his. JD had gone Cujo at the intrusion, leaping at the door with such force he’d knocked out the security window.
She certainly didn’t want a repeat of that right now.
Letti pressed the brake and shifted the Audi into reverse, giving it a little gas.
The wheels whirred, but they remained stuck.
“I can’t see anything out there,” Florence said, her nose pressed to the glass. “It’s like staring into a grave at midnight.”
Letti gave it a little more gas, shouldering JD aside and watching the RPM gage jump.
The car still didn’t move. She wondered if the Audi was on its undercarriage, the wheels off the ground. She would have to go check, see if she could—
JD barked again, clipped and loud, surprising the shit out of her.
“JD! Down!”
Letti gave the dog a rough shove, pushing him off her lap and back into his seat. Then she reached for the door handle.
”Letti!” Florence yelled in her ear. “Don’t get out of the car!”
Her mother never raised her voice. Ever. Not even when Letti was a child. So hearing it now felt like a slap. Letti recovered quickly, turning around in her seat to look at her.
“What’s the problem, Florence?”
“There’s something out there,” Florence said.
“JD has never been in the woods before. It’s probably a rabbit. Or a deer.”
“Or a bear.” Florence looked solemn.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Indulge an old woman. Turn off the car and the headlights for a minute.”
Letti sighed. “Florence...”
“Please. What can it hurt?”
Kelly leaned forward. “What if it’s that guy with the gun, Mom?”
“We’re a long way from him, Kelly.”
“What if it is a bear?”
“Then hopefully he’ll help us get unstuck.”
No one laughed. Sighing, Letti flipped off the ignition and killed the lights.
It seemed even darker now. Darker, and unnaturally quiet. Letti couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.
Then a light came on in the backseat.
Kelly. Holding up her iPod, its screen bright white.
“Turn that off, dear. With no light, our eyes can adjust to the darkness.”
Dear? Florence never called me dear.
Letti chided herself. She wasn’t in competition with her daughter.
The light went off. Everyone waited. Letti wasn’t scared. She never got scared. It was a useless emotion, like guilt, and worry. Even if there was a bear out there, the thing to do was deal with it, not hide from it like frightened children.
“Have we waited long enough, Florence?”
“Shh. I hear something.”
“What?”
“Right next to the car.”
Letti felt the gooseflesh rise on her arms.
“Are the doors locked?” Florence whispered.
Against all common sense, Letti lowered her voice as well. “Why? A bear is going to pull open the door?”
“I don’t think it’s a bear,” Florence said. “I think it’s something else.”
Letti found the lock button, flicked it twice to make sure. Then she pressed her face to the window, trying to peer outside. Slowly, her eyes began to adapt, and she could see her breath fogging up the glass.
Letti wiped it off with her palm.
It didn’t wipe off.
She rubbed harder, her flesh squeaking on the window.
The condensation stayed there. And as she squinted at it, she watched the fog get bigger.
Hold on... it’s not on the inside.
It’s on the outside.
Someone has their face against my window.
JD went crazy, jumping fully on top of Letti, his claws digging into her thighs, barking and scratching at the glass in full-on attack mode. Letti’s face was buried in his muzzle, fur getting up her nose. She gave the dog a rough shove, turned the ignition, threw it into gear, and jammed on the accelerator.
The engine whined, then the wheels found purchase and the Audi lurched forward, climbing out of the ditch, bouncing its occupants against the ceiling, JD falling into the passenger seat. Letti cut the wheel hard to the right so the rear didn’t get stuck, and all four tires bit into the dirt as she fishtailed. She flipped on the brights, gasping as something darted behind a tree only a few feet away from them.
A man?
Pretty big for a man.
“Mom!”
Letti saw it too; a tree, dead ahead. She wrestled with the wheel, guiding the Audi back onto the trail, the tree trunk banging against the side mirror and shearing it off.
Twenty yards later, the woods suddenly opened up into a clearing. Letti hit the brakes, skidding to avoid smashing into the front porch of the large house that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Then there was a massive BANG! as the front tire popped.
# # #
After five miles of driving, the stench of blood began to make Deb sick, and she pulled the Vette over on the side of the road to clean up.
“I have bottled water, some towels, in the trunk,” she said, the first words spoken since they’d left the butchered deer. “I also have some plastic garbage bags.”
“You come equipped,” Mal said.
“It’s a triathlete thing. Never know when you’ll be swimming, or have to hydrate.”
They got out of the car, walked around to the rear. Mal pulled out his suitcase, and Deb pulled hers. She was thinking the same thing he probably was; in the darkness, the only way to change clothes was next to the light from the trunk. She watched him struggle for a moment with what to do, and then she pulled her bloody tee sh
irt up over her head, revealing her neon sports bra.
“Would you like some privacy?” he asked.
Deb loosened the drawstring on her sweatpants. “I wear a bikini when I compete. There’s nothing you’ll see here that you won’t see there.”
She rested her butt against the bumper, then tugged down her pants. Removing them from her legs was awkward, but Deb favored flared cuffs, making the process easier. When she was finished, she stood in her bra and panties, expecting Mal to be staring at her prosthetic legs.
Instead, Deb caught him staring at her breasts, which made her feel wonderfully normal. She tried not to smirk, reaching into the trunk for a water bottle and a towel as he began to unbutton his shirt. Deb cleaned herself off as best she could. When she glanced at Mal again, he was in his boxer briefs. It was obvious he worked out.
“Can you toss me a water bottle?”
Deb thought, staring at his chiseled abs, about asking him if he needed help. But that was totally inappropriate, especially after what they’d just been through. Instead, she went with something banal.
“Do you run?”
“Yeah. Not like you, though. Never competed in anything. After five miles I feel like puking.”
“Everyone feels like puking after five miles. It’s called hitting the wall. You have to run through it.”
“That’s why you’re the athlete, and I’m the reporter. Once I hit the wall, I curl up and start crying.”
“I do that too. But only after the race.”
Deb took a long pull from the water bottle, then dumped the remainder on her prosthetics. Her cosmetic legs, as opposed to her sports legs, were flesh-colored and shaped like real calves, the outer skin latex. Inside each was a titanium bar, which attached to a complicated spring/joint mechanism that functioned as ankles. Her high-top Nikes were specially made to snap onto the ends. Every so often, Deb toyed with the idea of getting a custom pair of stiletto boots. She missed high heels. But walking was enough of a challenge without an extra three inches.
Except for the flesh-colored Velcro straps just below her knees where the prosthetics began, the legs looked real, even close up. But they got dirty very easily, and were a pain to clean. The dried-on blood was proving especially tough, and Deb was worried if she rubbed too hard, she’d rip the latex.