by Mark Lukens
As he drove into town, trying to stick to the unplowed roads as much as possible, he saw more cop cars patrolling than he’d ever seen before. They must be looking for the escaped criminals. He hadn’t even thought about the bank robbers. Being at Tom Gordon’s burnt cabin this morning seemed like such a long time ago—a lifetime ago. Everything had changed since then.
He was tempted to stop one of the cops and plead for help. But what could he do, tell them that his dead father had dug himself out of his frozen grave and was now holding his sister and mother hostage, tearing pieces of their bodies off one by one? They would lock him up and then there would be no chance of saving his family. The police couldn’t kill that thing … they couldn’t kill whatever the hell was inside of his dead father.
And Travis was sure that the thing inside his dead father—that spidery, slithering thing—would know somehow if he didn’t accomplish his mission. Maybe that thing and this boy it wanted killed had some kind of psychic connection and that thing would know immediately when that link was broken.
What was that thing? Was it an alien? A demon of some kind? Travis even tried to rationalize that he had imagined the whole thing … and the farther away he rode away from the madness the more his mind tried to convince him of that possibility.
Except that his mother’s severed finger was tucked down inside his shirt pocket.
“Put it in your pocket,” the thing that used to be his father had growled at Travis as it stood right in front of him; its breath smelled like moist earth and rotting meat.
Travis had almost retched as that thing stood right in front of him, but he took the bloody finger from the dead man’s hand. His father’s flesh was cold, but his mother’s finger was still warm and moist with blood.
Being so close to his dead father, Travis saw the bullet hole he had created when he’d shot him in the forehead. He saw the flash of daylight through the bullet hole—straight through to the back of his head which had exploded open from the gunshot wound. Shattered, jagged pieces of skull stuck out of the back of his head, and his gray hair was matted down with that grayish goo that had been inside his embalmed body around the edges of the gaping wound. Travis saw the mortician’s stitches hanging from the inside of his father’s lips and eyelids, tiny black strings hanging down after he’d forced his eyelids and mouth open after crawling out of his grave.
“For every hour you don’t come back, I take a piece of them,” his dead father had whispered.
Travis had nodded, afraid if he spoke that he might vomit. The room seemed like it was spinning around him in his peripheral vision.
“Go,” his dead father had whispered. And then he had smiled—it was like invisible strings had just yanked up the corners of his mouth violently, a forced smile underneath the dead, white-glazed eyes.
Travis had stumbled back away from his father and then raced outside. He had puked in the snow before even reaching his snowmobile, throwing up a yellowish streak across the pristine snow. His stomach was emptied, but he didn’t feel any better.
And now he pulled his snowmobile up to the edge of the motel parking lot. They were in there somewhere—the man, the woman, and the boy. He wasn’t sure if he could do this … but he had to. Had an hour passed by already? Was that thing twisting off another one of his mother’s fingers, or cutting a slice of flesh off with the kitchen knife? Travis felt his stomach lurch again; he felt like he was going to throw up again but he didn’t have anything left to purge from his stomach.
He touched his coat where the gun inside bulged as he sat on his snowmobile, staring at the motel in the distance.
Just do it, he told himself. Just get it over with.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cody’s Pass, Colorado
The commuter jet Special Agent Palmer was in landed at a small airstrip right outside of Destin, Colorado. The snow on the airstrip looked like it had been plowed away recently, but it still looked dangerously slippery to land on. Palmer wasn’t usually afraid of flying, but looking out the small plane’s windshield at that runway made him nervous. The pilot assured him that they would be fine, but Palmer had gripped the armrests of his seat anyway, bracing for impact.
But the landing went smoothly just like the pilot said it would. And a rental car was waiting for him just like Debbie promised. The rental was another black sedan similar to the one he’d driven in New Mexico. It was most likely a different make and model, but it still looked like a cookie cutout car to Palmer.
He got in the car and turned his phone on. Debbie had sent him the address and he’d already programmed it into the GPS app on his phone while he was on the plane. She’d also told him that the road to the address, Route 217, had already been plowed a little earlier.
He was ready to go.
As Palmer drove up into the mountains, following the commands of the female and slightly robotic voice giving him turn-by-turn directions from his phone, he wondered how badly the crime scene had already been compromised.
Debbie had explained as much as she knew about the crime scene while Palmer was still in the air. She’d told him that a burning cabin had been discovered by the sheriff’s department with an SUV parked in back, part of it on fire. The vehicle belonged to a woman named Stella Weaver—and that’s when the FBI got involved. Debbie also told Palmer that there were five dead and burnt bodies inside the cabin—all male.
Stella wasn’t with them.
The drive seemed to take forever on the winding road that twisted its way through the mountains. Walls of snow-covered trees whipped by in a blur outside his car’s windows. He had his headlights on even though it was still the middle of the day, the beams of light shining at the freshly-plowed road. Even though several feet of snow had been plowed to the side of the road Palmer still drove carefully.
“Turn left at the next driveway,” the robot voice from his phone chimed out. “Your destination is just up ahead.”
“I don’t see a driveway,” Palmer grumbled but he slowed the car down gently. He glanced down at the phone and saw the driveway on the screen splitting off from Route 217 and .1 miles at the top, counting down to his arrival. He looked back at the windshield and saw a lone mailbox at the left side of the road, practically buried in the hill of snow that had been plowed into it.
And there was the driveway.
Palmer drove down the twisty, narrow driveway and after five minutes it opened up onto a massive field. In the middle of the field was the burnt cabin, all four log walls still standing but the roof was partially caved in. Part of the front porch had collapsed, but most of the debris had been removed and piled up near the front corner of the cabin. A large truck with a long bed and a crane on top was parked alongside the cabin, the crane removing the last bits of the roof from inside the cabin. A fire truck, an ambulance, the fire chief’s car and two sheriff cars were parked in a plowed area in front of the cabin. None of the lights were flashing—the vehicles had been here for a while now, the investigation going on for some time.
Palmer parked towards the back of the plowed parking area, right behind one of the sheriff’s cars. He turned his headlights off and then cut the engine. He grabbed his phone and got out. He shrugged into his coat, slipped his gloves on, and tucked his phone into his outside coat pocket.
The sheriff approached Palmer’s car. He was a tall man … a large man. He didn’t seem muscular, more like a man who’d always been big and was comfortable with it. He had a ruddy complexion and sharp little eyes set deep in his face. He walked with an air of confidence, a man who was on his home turf.
Palmer reached inside his suitcoat pocket and pulled out his FBI badge and ID. He snapped it open with a flip of his wrist, showing his credentials. “Special Agent Palmer.”
The sheriff nodded. He didn’t offer to shake hands.
“I was told there’s a vehicle here belonging to a woman named Stella Weaver.”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said. “Truck’s around back.”
Palmer followed the sheriff down a well-worn path through the snow to the back of the cabin where the charred remains of Stella’s vehicle remained.
“The fire was deliberate?” Palmer asked.
The sheriff nodded. “We found an empty gas can on the other side of the cabin.”
They didn’t try to hide the evidence, Palmer thought. Just like at the dig site.
“Our fire chief has looked through the damage already,” Sheriff Hadley told him.
“We’ve got forensics and fire specialists on the way,” Palmer responded and he could sense the sheriff tense up a little. It was like a slap in the face, like their hick specialists weren’t as good as government ones.
“I’m told there are five bodies inside the cabin,” Palmer said.
The sheriff gave a curt nod. “Yessir.”
“And the owner of this truck, Stella Weaver, she’s not one of the bodies?”
“Nosir,” the sheriff answered. It sounded like one word the way he said it. The constant use of “sir” reminded Palmer of someone who used to be in the military. “All five are male. Our medical examiner is here now and he’s already taken a look at them.”
Palmer stared hard at the sheriff.
“No tests have been done,” Hadley assured Palmer. “But the M.E. has found some strange things.”
Palmer braced himself, afraid of more strange news, but deep down he knew it was going to happen. “What kind of strange things?” he asked, trying to keep a poker face.
“The M.E., his name’s Carson. He’s right over there by the front of the cabin.”
Palmer walked with the sheriff around the ambulance and firetruck. He met Carson near the front porch as promised. The M.E. was a short man with a pot belly. His gray hair was wild and a little long and he had a pair of oversized glasses on his face that magnified his eyes. He was bundled up in a thick coat and he still had a pair of latex gloves on his hands. The gloves looked fresh. Palmer figured the gloves the M.E. had worn to do a cursory examination, the ones that would have had charred marks all over them from the burnt bodies, were discarded by now.
Carson offered a hand in greeting and Palmer shook it, a quick shake.
“The sheriff tells me that you’ve discovered some odd things,” Palmer said.
The M.E. nodded. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-six years. You think you’ve seen everything …”
As the M.E. let his words trail off, Palmer was reminded of talking to Susan Dorsett, the forensics specialist at John and Deena’s house in New Mexico only hours ago—she had begun with the same preamble. He glanced at the front porch beyond them. The roof of the cabin had collapsed from the fire, but much of the debris had been taken away and piled up in the snow near the house by the firefighters and the crane operator. The floor of the wide front porch was more solid near the front doorway where the door looked like it had been smashed in.
“Who’s been inside the cabin so far?” Palmer asked.
“Just the M.E., the fire chief, and the firefighters,” the sheriff answered. “And me.”
Palmer nodded. He saw that a few of the firefighters were removing the last of the burnt debris of the roof by hand, carrying it out the back door where they were creating another pile.
“I don’t want any of this debris taken away until our guys go over it,” Palmer said.
The sheriff nodded like he already knew that. “We’ve got it in piles beside the house. The fire chief’s preliminary explanation is that there was some kind of explosion inside. Most likely from the gas stove and oven.”
“So this place wasn’t only set on fire with gasoline?” Palmer asked.
“The gas was used as a propellant,” the sheriff answered. “That’s what the fire chief said. The explosion was the spark that set it all off. He found an exploded soda can in there that most likely came from the microwave oven. The can had been thrown across the kitchen in the blast.”
Palmer nodded again and turned his attention back to the M.E. who was waiting patiently.
“These three bodies were out here on the porch when I got here,” Carson said, gesturing at the three charred bodies lying on the front porch, one near the doorway on his stomach, arms reaching out towards the door like he was trying to crawl back inside. “Two more just inside the doorway there.”
The M.E. noticed Palmer staring at the body near the doorway. “Looks like he was trying to crawl back inside the house during the fire, doesn’t it?” the M.E. asked Palmer like he was seeking his opinion.
Palmer didn’t nod. He just looked back at Carson. “So that’s the strange thing about the bodies? Because one of them looks like he might’ve been crawling back inside the cabin?”
“Oh God, no,” Carson said and chuckled. “There’s a lot more than that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The cabin
The M.E walked over to the edge of the front porch and pointed at the closest burnt body. His hand was trembling as he pointed and Palmer didn’t know if it was from nervousness or excitement, or both. “The flesh around this man’s neck is gone. Only the spine is remaining. And, I know it’s hard to tell now, but areas of the flesh around the mouth are gone.”
“Maybe the explosion—”
“No,” the M.E. said, cutting Palmer’s words off. “The explosion didn’t cause that. These wounds were there before the fire. He also has an ax in his hand.”
Palmer noticed that. The man’s burnt hand was skeletal and still wrapped around the handle of the charred ax.
“Why would this guy be holding an ax?” the M.E. asked. “He couldn’t have even been standing up with his neck like that; he wouldn’t have been able to hold his head up at all.”
“Maybe someone placed the ax there after the fire started,” Palmer offered, but it didn’t make a lot of sense. “One of the bank robbers who got away.” But why put an ax in the man’s hand? he wondered.
“And that guy over there,” Carson said, pointing at the next body, pretty much ignoring Palmer’s theory. “The back of his body and the back of his head has all been hollowed out.”
“The explosion …” Palmer said again, hoping it would be an explanation.
“I don’t think so. For one thing, this guy is outside here on the porch, not inside where the explosion took place.”
“And the explosion wasn’t that powerful,” the sheriff said. “Fire chief told me that.”
The M.E. nodded at Sheriff Hadley and then looked back at Palmer. “And again, those wounds look to me like they were created before the fire … before the explosion. Someone gutted this guy from the back and left him on the front porch. Took all his organs out, his muscle, bones. Everything … it’s all gone.”
The M.E. stepped up onto the porch and the sheriff followed. “Fire chief said it’s safe enough inside the house now.”
Palmer stepped around the outstretched hands of the man reaching for the door. He was reminded of photos he’d seen of people trapped in ash in Pompeii, frozen forever in their last acts on Earth, frozen in screams of agony.
“This guy,” Carson said, pointing down at the man in front of the door. “He doesn’t have any eyes. Torn out completely.”
Palmer felt that sick feeling in his stomach again. This was shaping up to be more and more like the crime scenes down in New Mexico. What the hell was going on here? Who the hell was doing this kind of shit to people? Bank robbers? That was hard to believe.
“And he’s got a wound down his side where it looks like something ripped him open.”
Palmer didn’t say anything.
“It looks like something pushed its way out of his body,” the M.E. said. “They all have similar wounds, holes and splits about a foot or so in diameter, ragged edges, the walls of burnt flesh pushed out.”
“What could do something like that?”
Carson shook his head; his big eyes magnified behind his glasses. “I can’t say for sure. But the bodies just inside the cabin here are just as strange.”
The M.E. and the sheriff entered the cabin, stepping around the man’s burnt body on the floorboards. They both walked gingerly on the floor even though the sheriff had claimed it was safe to enter the building.
Palmer followed them inside and saw the other two bodies immediately.
“This one over here doesn’t have any eyes,” Carson told Palmer.
“Like the one on the front porch.”
“Sort of,” Carson answered. “But this guy’s eyes look like they were cut out with a lot less precision than the one on the front porch. And you’ll notice here along his side, the hole in his flesh.”
Palmer felt that sick feeling wanting to surface more forcefully, but he crouched down and took a closer look. The M.E. was right, it was like something had been inside of this man and had exploded out of him. He even saw what looked like the sharp point of a broken rib sticking out through the charred flesh, the bone gleaming white in contrast to the blackened flesh and clothing.
“But the strangest one is over here.”
The M.E. walked over to the last body. “It looks like this guy had been torn apart into pieces and then fused back together somehow.”
Palmer shook his head. “What do you mean? How can you tell something like that?”
He pointed down at the deep cuts in the man’s arms and legs, the clothing melted away in the fire. “Jagged and deep cuts. Snapped bones. But it looks like they were … I don’t know any other way to say it than they were somehow fused back together.”