by Mark Tufo
That was Gem. She was the best fit I’d ever had. Beautiful and tough. Comfortable and easy. No guilt, no pressure, but great sex. And when I had something for work that I needed to do, she was genuinely interested.
Hell, I was only an electrician, but if I had a circuit layout to design, she’d sit there and drink coffee and just watch me lay it out as though what I did was art, a creation. In a way, I guess it was, but not like her stuff. She was a true artist. Paint and clay ran through her veins.
She’d always been an artist and illustrator, but the latter was more for architectural design, and it bored the shit out of her. It was a way to make money when her art wasn’t moving in the local galleries, but there was too much structure and no freedom of expression. I could always tell when she was working on building illustrations; she was grouchy and cussed a lot. She’d put down her weed for coffee and the edginess showed. But even her architectural drawings were amazing to me; the perspective, the shading. No bullshit. She was and is pure artistry, and I got into watching her do her thing. When she got into her own creations, whether with paint, clay, copper or paper, she blew my mind. The woman could make a shit statue that blew my mind, for Christ’s sake. As for her mind, it functioned in this world, but also in an alternate world; we’ll call it the abstract world. She saw things differently. Nothing sequential about her – she had her own approach, is about the only way I can explain it. She shifted the order to suit her brain and made it work even better out of order.
A genius in her own right. And I lost her. I didn’t even realize how important she was to me until I did. I guess I’ll explain that later. Back to the problem of the day. Shit. The problem of the rest of time, unless something drastic changes. The Zombie problem. There. I used the word, and if you laugh, then it’s years later and the problem is just a footnote in history.
And you have no fucking idea how insane it really was.
I pulled up to 45 Randall Street in Gainesville at 8:42. Light was fading with the fast dropping sun, now a glow on the horizon. I’d wanted to get there earlier, but I was there now, and that was all that mattered. I threw the transmission into park when I slid to a stop ten feet from the door.
The screen door was closed, but the front door remained open. There was something splattered on the screen and I ignored it, just as I had all the bad signs along the way.
“Jamie!” I yelled, slamming the door of the truck as I sprinted toward the house. I looked around. Her house was isolated from the neighbors by virtue of her acre lot and a heavy growth of trees all around. The single streetlight on the gravel road just at the entrance of her driveway was just flickering into life as the sun dropped completely. No lights were on in the house, but I could still see okay; the sky still glowed a light blue, but would soon fade to a moonless black.
I felt the .38 in the back of my pants, but I didn’t pull it out. It was Jamie and Jack’s house, for God’s sake. I’d never need it here. I approached the front porch and jumped the steps, landing outside the door. I grabbed the screen door handle and my hand immediately became wet with something cold, slick.
I pulled back suddenly, and rubbed my fingers together. The wetness felt familiar. It was dark inside now, and I couldn’t see through the netting of the screen, so I wiped my hand on my jeans and pulled the door open. As I took two steps into the room my hand fell on the light switch, and I flipped it to the ‘on’ position.
And suddenly my feet were slipping like a goddamned cartoon coyote, as I tried fruitlessly to backpedal. The blood drained from my face, and I felt pale and weak. My left boot suddenly caught traction the rough floorboards and I was propelled backward through the door and onto my back, sliding all the way down the two steps into the dirt. I heard screaming, then realized it was me.
I scrambled back to my feet and ran to the truck where I grabbed my cell phone off the dash. I opened it and punched in 911.
It rang several times before the familiar tone sounded, followed by a voice that said, “All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.”
I threw it back inside my truck and slammed the door. My hand moved to rub the pain where the .38 had jammed into my back when I fell. I removed the gun, and though I knew it was loaded, I flipped it open and checked anyway. With 911 down and out, I was on my own.
My right hand shook as I aimed the revolver toward the light filtering through the blood-spattered screen door. I willed myself to go back inside. I didn’t want to. I wanted to go back in there as much as I wanted to sit down in a sadistic dentist’s chair and have a root canal without anesthesia, but I didn’t have any choice.
I pulled the door open again, felt the wetness, this time all too aware what it really was. It was everywhere. Blood. Jack’s blood. Who else’s? Jesse’s? Trina’s? Where the hell was Jamie, and who did this?
Moving along the wall, I looked down and took in the scene. Jack’s body lay sprawled on the floor, his shirt torn open. His chest had been splayed open, and it was fairly easy to tell what the weapon was, because it was still embedded in his abdomen. The small hand axe’s wooden handle had smeared, bloody handprints on it. What appeared to be small handprints. Not a child’s kind of small.
A woman’s. Jamie’s kind of small.
But it was not the axe in his stomach, nor the gaping hole that should have revealed Jack’s heart but didn’t – now it was just an empty pocket – that drew my attention. It was his head. A serrated steak knife lay beside it, and the dome shaped chunk of the top of Jack’s skull lay just behind the body. It had been sawed off with the knife.
I turned and puked into the sink in the counter behind me. I puked my guts and kept puking until nothing else came out. Then I dry heaved a few times just for good measure. There was nothing left.
I had to see what the prize was. Why cut open his head? Why cut open his chest? I could see the heart was gone – it was just a dark hole. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and slid along the wall back toward the door and bent down, my gun aimed down the dark hallway just in case.
“Holy hell,” I said. “Holy fucking hell.” His head was empty. The brain was gone. I’m no doctor, and I didn’t have to be to know what I was seeing was the nub of the brain stem.
What had Jack done? Had he gotten mixed up in some gambling shit? Borrowed money from the wrong people? He fucking delivered coffee or something! He was about the most benign guy I’d ever met. Who would want to kill him, and where the hell were Jamie and the girls?
I strained to focus, trying to get my heart to stop slamming so hard in my chest. It was still about 80 times faster than normal, but the gun in my hand calmed me a little, and allowed me to take in the rest of the scene.
There were footprints. They looked like women’s shoes. Flats. About Jamie’s size. Tracking through the blood. There were what appeared to be knee prints, too. And hand prints. I didn’t know what to think. Had Jamie come in and found him like this and dropped to her knees beside him? I refused to think about what I’d heard Jamie’s voice say on the phone nearly 6 hours ago now.
I’m so fucking hungry . . .
I needed to find the girls. I backed away from the horror scene splayed out in the entry and moved into the hallway, gun held out. I flipped on the light and the yellow glow washed down the hallway and bathed the living room, chasing away the shadows. Both were empty. I wanted to call the girls, but the last thing I wanted them to do was to run into that room and see what I’d seen.
But they already had, hadn’t they? I’d heard them screaming over the phone line.
“Jamie! Jesse! Trina!” I called. “It’s Uncle Flex! Don’t be afraid. Come on out here if you hear me. I’ll get you out of here!”
Nothing.
I moved down the hallway. There were two bedrooms down there. One just up on the left side. Directly across from that entry there were two double bi-fold doors where the laundry room was. Not much room in there. Washer. Dryer. A large sink. Down at the end there was a door outside, a bathroom on
the left, and the other bedroom on the right side. That was the master bedroom.
As I approached the first bedroom door, I heard a low thump. I stopped. There was no wall switch in this room. There was a lamp plugged into an outlet. I’d stayed in this room a lot because while it was the girls’ room, when I’d visit, the girls would share a bed and I’d sleep in the other twin sized setup, my feet hanging off the end of the tiny mattress. The lamp was right between the two beds, but the darkness was complete, and I didn’t want to stumble around, giving up my present location to whoever had done this thing.
And I didn’t bring a damned flashlight.
“Jesse?” I whispered. If she was here, and she was hiding, I didn’t want to frighten her anymore than she already was. “Trina? It’s Uncle Flex. If you’re in here, come to me now. I’m right by the door.”
Something slammed into my legs and I felt it closing around me. I almost staggered back, but caught myself on the doorframe with my free hand. I recognized the feel of little arms around my upper legs.
“Uncle Flex,” came the tiny voice. “Mommy’s . . . scaring me.”
I knelt down and pulled little Trina into my arms. “Shh, baby. I got you now. Is your sister in here with you?”
Her body shuddered in my grip and I pulled her tighter to me. I felt her shaking her head no. “Mommy took her. Mommy’s real sick.” She wouldn’t speak above an airy whisper.
“Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’m taking you outside.”
She pressed her face into my shoulder as I scooped her into my arms and stood, backing out of the room and into the hallway again. I hurried down the hall toward the door, holding her tight to me with one hand, and the gun barrel leading the way like an arrowhead. As I got into the entry where Jack’s body lay sprawled and exposed, she sensed it. Trina pressed her face tighter into me. I pushed open the screen door and walked directly to the Suburban. I looked in all directions. If Jamie somehow did do this, it was her I looked for. In my mind it was still impossible. A maniac had done this; had broken in, killed Jack, and taken Jamie and Jesse while Trina hid. The 6-year old was just confused and frightened.
But I had seen the handprints. The footprints. There was something really fucked up and inexplicable going on. I pulled open the truck’s door and deposited Trina gently inside. She held onto my arms as I tried to let her go.
“Baby, I have to find your sister and mama, so you stay –”
“Don’t find mama don’t find mama don’t find mama,” she stammered, hyperventilating, her body shaking.
“Okay, Trina. Okay. If I find her, I won’t bring her here, but I think she’s sick, honey.”
Trina, her hair over her face and her eyes wide, said “She took Jess. She’s gonna eat Jess. She was eating daddy.” Then she erupted into tears.
I stared at her. I didn’t know what to say to her. What she had just said was my greatest fear, and what my crazy, freaked out brain was thinking since I’d seen the horrifying scene in the entry and connected that with what I’d heard on the phone, but I wasn’t in that mindset then. I was not programmed to believe that human beings – human beings in my family that I loved – could be out there killing other human beings that I loved and . . . and eating them.
“Stay here,” I told her. “And when I close the door, I want you to lock it and lay down on the floor over there. And stay down. Understand?”
She nodded. I kissed her little cheek, rubbed the back of her head with my hand, and pulled away. “On the floor now.” She obeyed, and I pushed down the lock and closed the door until I heard it latch.
Then I headed out into the moonless night, looking for my sister and my niece. And not really wanting to find them.
Chapter 217
I walked away from the Suburban, turning back once more to make sure Trina had her head down. No sign of her. Good.
No calling out to anyone this time. As quiet as I could be. Unlike Jack inside the house, I needed my heart and my brain, and even more than that, Trina needed me to keep them, so stealth was my new modus operandi.
I planned to go back inside the house where I would have light. I’d not yet completed my search there, and before I considered going into the back yard, I would be bathing that area in the light from the back porch – and the switch was only accessible from inside.
Holding the Smith & Wesson out in front of me, I used one finger to hook around the slimy screen door handle. I didn’t want any more of that blood on me. I’d already touched enough and seen enough. I had no idea how much more I’d see as the next days passed.
I eased the door open. Everything inside was as it had been. With a last glance toward my truck, I went inside and guided the door closed quietly behind me. I moved back down the hall and stopped by the kitchen.
A flashlight. Who didn’t have one in the junk drawer? I went in and opened it. Sure, I knew which one it was – I’d been here a thousand times – and as soon as I opened the drawer I saw the four inch LED light with the rubber power button. I pushed it, and that sucker lit up like a tiny football stadium.
I smiled then. I was proud of myself. I have no idea when the next time I smiled was. I might have done it for Trina – to make her feel like everything was okay, but it wasn’t real. I may have done it for Gem, when I saw her again – no maybe about it; I did smile when I saw Gem again, but that’s for later.
The hallway was foreboding, and I didn’t get why. I knew there were still unexplored places down there, but it was so out of place for me to feel anything but comfort and a desire for a beer in this home. All I’d ever experienced before this night was love in this place. Now I could add terror and relief to that list. But right now I was back to the terror part. I was an electrician, and the worst thing I usually run into is the odd spider or rat.
I stopped across from the laundry room and stared for a moment at the closed bi-fold doors. The hall light was still burning, so I didn’t need my flashlight yet. I pulled open one of the doors, and in the silence of the house, it squealed like a 16 penny nail being dragged over a chalkboard.
Then I saw the dress. It was hanging out of the closed washer lid. I’d seen the dress before. I’d seen Jesse wearing it. My breath caught in my throat, and I transferred my gun to my left hand and pointed it down toward the end of the empty hallway where the door to the back patio was, just to make sure I was ready in case someone – or something – appeared there.
I turned my eyes back to the washer. The closed lid. Jesse’s dress. It no longer looked like a washer, but like a coffin. A crypt. Then I snapped, realizing I had to take action and shake off the bullshit fear I was experiencing. One more glance down the hall.
Empty. Back to the washer. I pulled that lid up as fast as I could. The washer was turned off, but the tub was filled with dirty water. Rust colored. The dress was white with red polka dots, so it could have been the color running into the water, but my heart pounded out the words in my ears: It’s Jesse in there.
My jaw was sore from clenching my teeth together, and my gun hand was shaking. I tugged firmly on that dress, sure I’d feel the resistance of a little girl’s dead body weighing it down. But it slid out easily and fell to the floor.
An involuntary sigh of relief left my body. Back to relief. Thank God. It was so much better than the terror part. The dress was not on Jesse. The dress was just a dress, and I didn’t care how it got like that. I moved away from the utility room and further down the hall. I pulled the mini flashlight out of my pocket and shined it into the bathroom on the left at the end of the hall. Nothing in there. No closets big enough to hide in, so I pushed the door back to make sure nothing – okay, nobody – hid behind it, and then pulled it softly closed. I shined the light toward the master bedroom and saw nothing. As I went to reach inside to hit the light switch, I heard a sound, like a metallic reverberation and a thud. My hand froze.
It sounded kind of random, like it was being made by a something, not a someone. I discovered I was holding my breath a
gain, and my sore jaw reminded me not to clench my teeth so tightly. I checked behind me again, down the hall, looked at the bathroom door. I reached over and tried to turn the knob to the patio door. It was locked. Everything was as it had been just a moment ago, which really shouldn’t have surprised or relieved me, but it did both. I felt with my fingers along the wall of the bedroom, found and flipped the light switch up, and the room came into view. Nobody lay in wait. The metallic banging sound persisted.
Then I looked down and saw them. How could I have missed them? The bloody footprints that led into the bedroom did not appear until they stained this carpeting. The carpeting in the hallway had been a deep brown, and the blood, having dried to a darker color, was not readily visible. But as I looked back behind me, I saw not only the blood on the floor, but the blood on the walls. How could I have missed it? My heart pounded in my chest suddenly, and I could hear it in my ears. It drowned out every other sound and I gripped the revolver with both hands, swinging it to all corners of the room, my eyes falling toward the floor as I stepped after the bloody footprints. They led to the window.
It was open. The sheer curtains were blowing into the room, and the half-open aluminum mini blinds were banging against the wall. The bloody handprints were all around the window, on the sheers, and on the sill. I saw a footprint on the sill and I guessed what had happened.
Trina had slipped into her bedroom closet, or under a bed while running from her mother. Jesse had run into the back room and was trapped when her mother, covered in blood and God knew what kind of gore, came in behind her. Jesse opened the window and scrambled through it, and she had been pursued by something that was no longer her mother, but something . . . something hungry. Something with a hunger that apparently could not be satisfied.