by Jack Kilborn
Next came Calvin Coolidge. Like every door so far, it was unlocked, making Deb wonder if any of the locks actually worked. Testing her theory, she turned the lock on the knob and then twisted it.
It doesn’t lock at all.
Again she stepped into a dark room, reaching for the light switch next to the doorway—
—touching the man who was standing there.
Deb recoiled, pulling away, backpedalling into the hall. Her ass hit the banister, and for a crazy moment she thought she was going to flip over it and tumble down to the first floor. She lowered her center of gravity by doing the splits, her Cheetah prosthetics splaying out as she sat on her ass.
Whomever she accidentally touched walked out of the dark room, into the light of the hallway. He had a large brow ridge, bisected with a single bushy eyebrow, on a head that was big and flatish on top. His arms were longer than they should have been, and his fingers were fused together in a triangle shape, like the flippers of a walrus. His other hand had a bloody bandage wrapped around it.
But the most repulsive thing of all was his torso. He had no shirt, and his pale, hairless chest was pocked with dozens of—
Nipples. He’s covered with nipples.
The freak opened his mouth and made a noise that was a lot like the honking of a Canadian goose. Then he lunged.
Deb thrust her blade at him, but he batted it aside with his bandaged hand, sending it skittering across the floor. She tried to scurry after the knife, but the curved fiberglass of her Cheetahs slipped across the wood floor. The only traction on her prosthetics were the rubber treads, but in a sitting position the bottoms were bent upward like the ends of a W.
Calvin honked again, getting his arms around her, nipples poking at her face and eyes. Deb tried to turn, to get onto her hands and knees, but his grip was too strong.
Behind her, the banister creaked, then shifted.
Calvin backed up, apparently afraid of breaking it and falling over. Deb took the opportunity to lunge for the knife, tapping it with her fingertips, sending it spinning toward the railing.
Don’t fall! Don’t fall!
The knife handle teeter-tottered over the ledge then righted itself. Deb stretched farther, trying to snag it, and then her head was yanked back by her hair. But it felt more than just pulling. It also felt wet.
She turned her head, trying to see what was happening peripherally.
He’s biting my hair.
Deb tried to push against the floor, but her prosthetics couldn’t get a purchase. Then her eyes flitted to her bag, the strap still around her shoulder. She reached for it.
Calvin’s hands moved down, encircling her neck, and Deb thought he was going to strangle her. But the pervert lowered his hands, reaching for her breasts instead.
Bad move.
Deb tugged down the zipper on her suitcase and freed one of her prosthetic mountain climbing legs—the one with the spikes on the toe.
Calvin got the spiked end in the eye.
He honked again, rolling off of her, slapping both hands to his face.
Deb grabbed the knife and pulled herself upright, ready to fight back. But the strange, heaving sounds Calvin made had a familiar, rhythmic pattern that made her pause.
He’s crying. Like a little kid.
While Deb was deciding what to do next, Calvin let out a mighty roar and tackled her, both of them flying over the railing, crashing to the floor twelve feet below.
# # #
Florence spent a lifetime studying the martial arts to become more in touch with her body, her surroundings, and her spirituality. But along the path to enlightenment, she also learned how to fight.
The two shots to the head didn’t even slow down the monstrous Warren, with his massive skull and elephantine legs. But Florence also had a knife. She moved easily and fluidly toward the stampeding giant, dropped her left shoulder, and rolled up to him, thrusting the Sheriff’s blade deep into his inner thigh. Florence twisted the knife, intending to sever the body’s largest artery, the femoral. Battlefield triage in Vietnam had shown her how quickly an injury like that proved fatal.
Incredibly, Warren swatted her aside, like she was a pesky fly. Florence moved with the blow, deflecting most of its force, and faced him on all fours, still clutching the knife. She waited for him to drop.
He didn’t. His leg was bleeding, but not gushing like she’d expected.
His thigh is so thick I missed the artery.
“You stabbed Warren,” Warren said.
“And I’ll do it again unless Warren leaves me alone.”
Florence eyed the door. She probably had a chance to get away. But Warren would no doubt follow, and alert others to what was going on.
It’s self-defense, Florence told herself. I’m not actively trying to kill a man.
But Florence knew Warren had to die if she was going to find Letti and Kelly.
Strangely, she was okay with that.
“How many brothers do you have, Warren?”
Warren plodded over to the dresser, picking up a packet. He tore it open and slapped white powder onto his thigh and forehead. The bleeding stopped almost immediately.
The styptic the Sheriff mentioned.
“Warren has lots of brothers.”
“How many is lots?”
He turned to face her. “Lots.”
“Your brothers have my daughter and granddaughter. I want to know where they are.”
Warren took a step toward her, spreading out his arms. “In the slave cellar. Where y’all ‘r gonna be.”
“Warren, if you go back to bed, and promise not to tell anyone, I won’t kill you.”
Warren made a low, throaty sound, that Florence figured out was laughter.
“Warren is big ‘n strong. You ain’t gonna kill Warren.”
He reached out his hands. They were so swollen and distorted they looked less like hands, and more like balloons with sausages sticking out of them. Florence gracefully sidestepped his attempted grab, clutched one of his fingers, and drew the blade across the underside of his wrist, cutting as deep as she could.
The blood came out like a lawn sprinkler turned on. Warren howled, turning to reach for the styptic. Florence changed her grip on the knife and stabbed him through his grossly deformed big toe, pinning his foot to the floor. Then she backed out of his range.
Warren tried to reach for the knife handle, but his stomach was so distended he couldn’t bend down low enough. It took him less than a minute to bleed to death, and Florence was surprised by how detached she felt watching him.
Then she stumbled into the bathroom and puked her guts out into the sink.
Good. For a second I thought I’d stopped being human.
Still queasy, Florence retrieved the knife and crept out of the room and into the hallway, almost bumping into a man with no arms. Her mind flashed back to Eleanor’s words.
“Legend says one slave, after his fifth drop, lost both of his arms when they ripped from his sockets. He’s said to roam the hallways at night, looking for his missing limbs.”
But this was no ghost of a slave. This was another of Eleanor’s perverted brood. And while he didn’t have arms, he did have hands. Underdeveloped baby hands, sticking directly out of his shoulders.
He lumbered toward Florence with a bowlegged gait, and his mouth seemed too small for his overabundance of teeth, which jutted crookedly from his lips in all directions.
“Don’t come any closer,” Florence said.
Like Warren, this one didn’t heed her warning. He came up fast, kicking at her chest, knocking Florence onto her back. One of his filthy feet pinned her wrist to the floor, and he actually gripped the knife with his toes, trying to wrestle it away from Florence.
She made a fist and punched upward, connecting between his legs. He groaned, doubling over, giving Florence easy access to his neck. She raised the knife.
The red sluiced down like hot, sticky rain.
Getting out from unde
r him, Florence heard a thump. She crawled to the railing and looked down.
Deb, and a man, were sprawled out on the first floor. There was a growing pool of blood, and neither one was moving.
Then Florence heard a door open. Followed by a few others.
She did a slow turn, taking everything in, and saw she was surrounded by freaks.
# # #
When JD took off through the open door, Kelly followed. The smell hit her first. A rotten, putrid smell. It reminded her of the time she was taking out the garbage and one of the bags broke open, spilling out the remains of a chicken dinner from a week ago.
There’s something dead in this room.
But Kelly couldn’t see what it was. Unlike the other rooms in these underground tunnels, this one had no overhead light bulbs.
Then the door behind her slammed shut, cutting of the little light that had been filtering in.
“JD?”
The dog didn’t come. Kelly took a few steps forward, hands out in front of her so she didn’t run into anything in the darkness.
Her fingers brushed something.
Something moist.
She recoiled, and strong arms grabbed her from behind. Before she had a chance to scream, the man clutching her said, “Kelly?”
“Cam?”
Kelly was still afraid, but he kept his hands on her shoulders, and that felt kind of nice. She felt her face get warm.
He’s way too old for me. He’s got to be at least nineteen or twenty.
Still, he is cute. And I am almost a teenager.
“I can’t find JD,” Kelly said, trying to keep her voice strong.
“Hold on. I have a lighter in my pocket.”
A flame appeared in front of Kelly, illuminating Cam’s outstretched arm, along with—
“Oh, wow…”
The room was filled with suitcases. A maze of suitcases, stacked floor to ceiling. Some of them looked really old, and were moldering in the dampness. Others looked so new they could have been purchased yesterday.
“How many do you think there are?” Kelly asked.
“I dunno. Hundreds.”
“Do you think…?” Kelly let the sentence trail off, not wanting to speak her thoughts out loud.
“Yeah. I think each one came from a person these psychos murdered.”
Kelly shivered. “I don’t like this place. We need to find my dog. He ran in here.”
“I know. I saw you and followed…”
The flame went off. Kelly pressed herself tighter against Cam.
“Sorry,” he said, flicking the lighter back on. “Thumb slipped. Let’s see what’s around that stack.”
Cam walked around Kelly, taking the lead, and she was sort of sorry he wasn’t holding her anymore. She followed close, a single step behind him. The lighter flame cast wild, flickering shadows, making the heaps of luggage seem like they were swaying.
They rounded the corner, and the smell got worse. Kelly put her hand over her mouth and nose.
“What’s that awful—”
The light went out again.
“Kelly,” Cam said. “I want you to do me a favor, okay?”
Kelly didn’t like his tone. He sounded scared. “What?”
“Take my hand, and close your eyes.”
“Why, Cam? What’s—”
“Trust me. You don’t want to see this. Just keep them closed until I say it’s okay.”
“Cam, you’re freaking me out.”
“Just do it. Please.”
Kelly believed after everything she’d already been through today, there was nothing else that could scare her. But when Cam said please, she gave in.
Besides, I get to hold his hand.
“Okay.”
Kelly closed her eyes, and Cam’s gloved hand encircled hers. They walked slowly, the smell getting almost unbearable. Cam made a gagging sound, and Kelly had to press her shirt against her face.
What could possibly smell this bad?
“We should go back for my mom,” Kelly said. She instantly regretted speaking, because the rotten stench got on her tongue.
“We will. But I feel a draft up ahead. I think it’s a way out. Unh!”
Cam’s hand pulled from hers, and she was left standing there alone. Her eyes sprung open.
“Cam?”
“I tripped, Kelly. Keep your eyes closed.”
But she didn’t. And when the light went on, she saw what Cam had tripped over.
A dead body.
The whole room was filled with dead people.
# # #
“Kelly!” Letti called out.
Three doors. Which one did she go through?
Letti hurried to the first door, knocking over a soggy cardboard box, spilling pills onto the dirt floor. She tugged open the door and gasped.
There were a bunch of people standing in the room.
But her brain told her something was amiss, that these weren’t people. She stared a moment longer, and saw that they were all elaborately dressed, some in period clothing. And none of them were moving.
Even stranger, most of them were recognizable.
“Wax figures,” Mal said. “I guess there’s no room for them in the house.”
Naturally, each wax figure depicted a U.S. President. They looked old, and far from pristine. Most were covered in dust and cobwebs. Some had broken limbs and cracked faces. The Richard Nixon closest to Letti was missing his nose.
“Kelly!” Letti yelled again. She took a step forward, toward a particularly ugly statue of George Washington in colonial dress, but someone held her back.
“Hold on,” Maria said, easing in front of her. She held up a scalpel she’d taken from the operating room, and whispered in Letti’s ear, “I’ve seen this trick before.”
Moving quickly, Maria stuck the scalpel into Washington’s belly.
The statue—which wasn’t a statue at all—howled and lashed out at her.
Four other statues followed suit, coming to life and closing in. Maria backed up, bumping into Letti, and they both high-tailed it out the door they’d come in, slamming it behind them. Letti braced her shoulder against the wood.
“Check the other doors! We have to get out of here!”
Mal opened the one on the right. “It’s dark. I can’t see anything.”
The door shuddered. Letti removed the cannula—a large, sharp metal tube she’d grabbed from the instrument cart—from her back pocket and speared it into the door jamb like a deadbolt. It wouldn’t hold for long.
Maria checked the far door. “There’s a ladder. Come on!”
The trio ran to the ladder. It was made of metal bars, old and rusty, ascending into darkness. Mal went up first, moving damn quick for a man with only one hand. Maria followed.
The door to the statue room burst open, and a bleeding, pissed-off George Washington stumbled through. He was followed by a large, stout woman wearing a pillbox hat.
“You can’t get away, Loretta,” Eleanor said. “No guests ever leave.”
Letti considered running at the woman, perhaps taking her as some kind of hostage. But four of her large brood filed out of the room behind her, so Letti turned and climbed up the ladder. At each rung, she expected someone to grab her ankles, pull her back down. But it didn’t happen. No one even seemed to be chasing her.
When she reached the top, she understood why. The ladder led to another doorway, which opened up into the main floor of the Rushmore Inn, where there were more than a dozen freaks waiting for her.
# # #
Felix didn’t move. He didn’t dare breathe. The mountain lion was less than a foot away, its golden eyes staring Felix right in the face. The cat’s ears flattened against its head and the beast roared in unmistakeable wildcat style, baring its sharp, thick fangs.
I’m about to die, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.
But Ronald wasn’t ready to kill Felix. Not yet.
Ronald wanted to play with his food first.
A paw shot out, clipping Felix in the head, the blow dizzying. Felix rolled, crying out, not caring anymore if he was heard or not. He had no idea how much punishment a man could take and still survive, but he knew he was near his limit.
The cougar pounced, landing next to Felix, and gave him another swat. It tore Felix’s shirt, and the skin underneath.
Felix tried to feebly scramble away, and Ronald’s claw hooked into his leg, pulling him back. He tried once more, and the cat did the same thing.
Enough. I’m done. It’s finished.
Felix rolled onto his back, staring up at the full moon peeking through the trees. He realized it would be the last thing he ever saw.
Such a shame. He wanted his last sight to be the woman he’d fought so desperately to save.
I love you, Maria.
And then Ronald’s warm mouth closed around Felix’s neck.
# # #
The first thing Deb saw when she opened her eyes was a swirling, spinning jumble of motes. They danced in her vision, making it hard to focus.
She shook her head, trying to get her bearings, and realized four things in rapid succession.
I fell on top of Calvin, and he’s bloody and completely still, and I think he’s dead.
My nose hurts, and I have a headache, but I don’t think I sustained any major damage.
I lost my knife, but I still have my prosthetic leg bag around my shoulder.
I’m surrounded by freaks.
The last thought jolted her back to the here and now. Deb pushed herself up off of Calvin, struggling to get her Cheetahs under her. The bottom skids kept slipping on the widening spread of blood.
Coming at her from the left side were; a man with one long arm and a very short arm, his skull so misshapen and massive he wore a neck brace to support it; a set of parasitic twins, the smaller, deformed brother’s head and hands sticking out of the hip of his host; a morbidly obese man with two extra hands jutting from his chest; and a man without a shirt, exposing lumpy growths all over his body that looked a lot like pink coral.