It was just another boring night until Zoelick noticed the shattered window and door of Buggy’s Liquor as they drove past. The broken glass sparkled in the moonlight as it spilled down the cement curb and onto the blacktop of the parking lot. With his peripheral vision, he was able to glimpse into the dark void that was blasted through the front window. His gut instinct was that a couple of seniors from the high school had broken in, stolen a few cases of beer, and took it to the Benson farm party.
The Benson farm was out on route 8, past town limits, headed toward Watertown. Richard Benson, a Dodge Junction high school senior, was hosting a keg party tonight. Small town cops like Zoelick and Zastrow could easily find out where the local farm parties were being held. Kids like to talk, even to cops. It made them feel important and somewhat superior. The police could always shake down some dumbass kid for information.
Kids broke easy and Zoelick busted enough teenagers for underage drinking that he was owed many favors. A few weeks ago, he pulled over Tom Delkamp for drunk driving. The seventeen year old had been so razzed that he’d given up every underage drinking event occurring over the next few months, the Benson party included. In turn, Zoelick let Delkamp park his car and walk home without a fine. If for some reason the police couldn’t shake down a teen; concerned parents sometimes informed them of the parties. Parents were fearful that one of their teens might kill themselves while driving drunk. Sometimes, a scorned teen would rat on the party, out of spite.
The unfortunate obstacle about the Benson farm was that because of the new zoning ordinance, the property was located outside of town limits, but also outside of the county sheriff’s district. The kids knew this. The local newspaper had run it as a front page story. It had been a very slight miscalculation by the alderman and it wouldn’t be corrected until next month. For now, the police could only patrol outside the perimeter. They were able to pull over vehicles that were speeding or appeared to be driving erratically. A good cop could always pull-over whoever they wanted and they could use whatever excuse they might think of.
Pulling into the parking lot of Buggy’s Liquor, Zoelick’s partner, Officer Jake Zastrow—a high strung rookie with blonde hair and puffy baby cheeks, who looked too young to be a cop, sat up straight and slapped the back of his own head. He’d been fighting sleep the entire shift. The six cups of strong coffee he drank wasn’t enough. Zastrow was given the previous three nights off and he liked to party. He still reeked of alcohol. Zastrow, along with the rest of the younger officers liked to let loose during their off days. Zastrow was rowdier than most and probably kept the party going until early this morning.
“You think we got a breaking and entering in progress?” Zastrow asked, shaking off his sleepiness. He blinked successively and adjusted in his seat.
Zoelick ignored Zastrow. “That ain’t Winny or Garth Gasper’s pick-up truck parked at the end of the lot. I know that for fact.”
He was right. The window was broken and the truck in the parking lot didn’t belong there, it was out of place. Zoelick felt a rush of excitement. His blood pumped fast.
They might get a little action tonight.
A breaking and entering would look good on both of their records.
Parking near the side of the brick building, Zoelick and Zastrow exited the police cruiser and walked, cautiously, toward the broken glass door.
Zoelick pulled his standard issue nine millimeter from its holster. He extended it forward and aimed it at chest level.
Zastrow did the same.
Zoelick’s nerves ran wild. About to enter through the broken door, he heard something rustle in the blackness of the store. It sounded like footsteps. It was probably some punk kid. Given their geography, kids were the logical answer. Or it might be the Gasper brothers assessing the store-damage. Maybe they’d purchased a new truck. He kept both ideas in mind. It was easier that way. He’d be able to cover his bases in his report.
Zoelick looked through the broken window. He saw movement and heard a burst of laughter. He aimed his pistol toward the back. A shadow grew and then shifted across the far wall, then disappeared into the darkness of the store. He was convinced that his first assumption was correct, that it was teens. A serious criminal wouldn’t be laughing nor running around the store.
“Officers Zoelick and Zastrow—coming in,” Zoelick yelled into the dark liquor store. “You have about a heartbeat to identify yourselves.”
“Help! This crazy old man shot me and my wife. He’s still in here.” A voice rang out. It echoed like it had come from the back and there was something mockery about tone of his voice.
Zoelick held his position. He didn’t want Zastrow to see his hands shaking. He was the senior officer and needed to display confidence. His pistol grip was slick from his sweating palms. There was something sarcastic about the way this man sounded, like he was joking. There was a jovial tone in his call of distress.
Was this some kind of joke?
Whoever was inside had better hope not.
A young man ran out of the store. He clutched his bloody chest with both hands as he ran forward. Zastrow popped out from behind Zoelick and raised his gun to chest level. His stomach heaved like he was going to throw-up. There was blood all-over the young man, not to mention a nice sized hole ripped through his chest.
“He’s got a gun! Help us officer, please. My wife’s still in there,” the young man screamed. Then he ran beside Zastrow. Zoelick turned to him. The kid was lucky he hadn’t been shot again—running out the way he did, all erratic-like.
“Get over here, now!” Zoelick commanded while pointing at the wall nearest the end of the front wall. “Take cover.” The man stumbled toward the brick wall. Zastrow accompanied him.
“Hey Zoelick, you want me to stay with the kid, or go with you?”
Zoelick thought fast, turned to the man with the chest wound and then said, “Stay with him. Assess the injury…call for backup.” He looked to the injured man and asked, “Where’s the gunman?”
The wounded man stuttered, “He…he…he’s in the back, left, corner. He’s got my wife, please don’t hurt my wife. Please don’t let him hurt my wife,” the young man cried. His pleas came out like a bad performance in a horror film. There was something very artificial about his demeanor.
Zoelick felt like he was stumbling into a war zone. Something was off. He’d never been in combat. The only battle he’d ever encountered, during his fifteen years as a small town cop, was a few bar brawls and he was scared shitless then. In hindsight, the thought of his fellow townsfolk seeing him act cowardly was more frightening than the actual fight. He didn’t want the community thinking he was incompetent. Obviously, this situation seemed more dangerous—life threatening. There was someone in the store with a gun and they’d obviously used it. Plus, he was going into the building blind. Someone inside had a weapon and a better line of sight.
It troubled Zoelick that the kid was so mobile. He was curious as to how he was still alive. How was he able to function after that kind of trauma? If the bullet hit him in the chest then he should be dead.
Rounding the corner, Zoelick entered the liquor store. He stepped on a large pile of broken glass. It crunched beneath his combat boots. He ducked down as he moved forward. He crept across the tile floor, toward the oil cans, which were stacked in neat rows on the bottom shelf.
He knelt down on a small piece of glass. It ripped through his pants and carved deep into his knee. He wanted to scream, but bit his tongue instead. Warm blood gushed out of the knee wound. It soaked into the dark blue fabric of his trousers. Reaching down, Zoelick pulled the sliver of blood stained glass from his knee. It was long, almost an inch.
“Officer! You need to arrest the man that ran outside. This is Father Gardner speaking. He’s dangerous and is the one behind all of this!”
It was Father Leslie Gardner. Zoelick knew the voice well. He and Gardner had coached a little league together. That was years ago, but they’d remained friends.
Gardner wouldn’t lie.
He also wouldn’t break into a liquor store in the middle of the night. Zoelick remembered that Gardner lived in the house up the hill.
Maybe he’d witnessed a disturbance and came to help.
That was something Gardner would do.
“What’s going on in here, Gardner?” Zoelick yelled out.
“I don’t know how to explain it. You need to arrest the kid that just ran out of here. He’s a criminal and he’s extremely dangerous.”
The sting of reality bit hard. Zoelick thought of his partner.
Zastrow was in danger.
The reality bite dissipated. Fear took over and as he prepared to leave the store, something caught his eye. Blood dripped from the ceiling.
2
Zastrow walked two steps behind the wounded young man who grabbed at his bloody chest and moaned. Even though the guy was severely injured, He remained skeptical. Small puddles of blood dribbled along the blacktop as they walked across the parking lot. The kid tripped, losing his balance. Lunging forward he cupped his right hand beneath the kid’s armpit. The kid was strong. His arms were solid, muscular.
He helped the kid as he hobbled, until they reached the police cruiser. Zastrow placed the kid’s hand on the hood. He hunched over, supporting himself, taking quick shallow breaths and continued grabbing at his chest wound.
Zastrow needed a rest too, but only for a moment. All of this sudden his movements were making him dizzy and none of this was helping his hangover. Shaking his head, he walked toward the back car door and unlocked it.
The door slid open. Zastrow stopped it with the palm of his hand. “Have a seat, sir. Try to relax. Real quick, what’s your name? Are you able to tell me?”
The wounded kid looked up. His eyes were demeaning, they laughed at him and for a moment, Zastrow wondered if the kid was faking his injuries. The convincing agony of pain was absent. There was something insincere about his facial expression. The kid’s dramatics were strange, like this was all a joke. But the hole in his chest suggested otherwise.
“Sammael. Call me Sam.” He said, looking up at Zastrow.
“Okay Sam, what happened?” Zastrow asked. He reached into the front seat of the cruiser and retrieved his radio set. He placed the receiver to his mouth, but didn’t speak. He expected an answer from Sam. Instead, something wet and muscular shot from Sam’s chest and slid around Zastrow’s neck. It clamped down tight and squeezed. Zastrow dropped the radio, fumbling for it as it fell to the blacktop. He turned to the store and tried to call out for Zoelick. He couldn’t. His airway was cut-off. Panic seized him. The sudden pressure to his head made his eyes feel like they were going to pop out of his head.
Zastrow’s knees hit the pavement. With both hands, he pried at the slimy vine wrapped around his neck while he attempted to spin and again, he tried to yell, his mouth opened, but nothing came out, his throat was clamped shut. His airway was restricted. The lack of oxygen caused his cheeks to burn. He swallowed, trying to breath.
What the hell was wrapped around his neck? It felt like a skinned snake.
Whatever it was, Zastrow couldn’t get a solid hold on it. He felt faint and his head ached. His finger slid along the length of the snake. It felt like it was lined with silicon, causing him to lose his grip. His hand slid off, and trying to grab this vine-thing was like trying to pin down a ball of mercury. He lowered his right hand to his belt. He grasped his nine millimeter. He aimed it at the slimy vine and then twisted his hand upward, beneath the wet-thing and fired. The vine snapped and let go.
Zastrow fell backward. He wrapped his hands around the pistol grip. Quickly, he aimed at Sam. The snake wiggled back and forth from his chest wound. It looked like a third arm as it coiled in and out of his wound. The tip of the vine branched out into four sharp ends that looked like thick silver fishing hooks.
Another gunshot rang out. “What the hell?” Zastrow screamed. The slimy thing whipped at his hand as he pulled the trigger.
The gun powder felt hot, burning against his face. His right eye stung, it felt wet.
With his left hand, he reached up and touched the tender spot near his temple.
“Holy shit!”
Zastrow had shot himself in the head. It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be fatal. It didn’t hurt, yet, and he was fully conscious.
Maybe he just grazed himself?
He prodded his fingers at the jaggedly torn skin. Blood spat out in thin streams. It splattered across his lap. Some of it painted the pavement.
Sammael laughed.
“You bring new meaning to the word misfire. I was going to take your head off, but this is much more amusing.”
Another shot rang out. This one slammed into Sam’s shoulder. Pink mist erupted in a cloud behind his head. Sammael fell to the ground. He overdramatically screamed, still laughing, while grabbing his fresh bullet wound. “Oh my lord…you hit me. Ouch, ouchy,” he roared. His laughter was hard and guttural. He started to gurgle like an infant in the depths of a temper tantrum.
Zastrow watched, terrified. Sammael crawled toward him. He swatted the gun from his hand and jumped on top of him.
Sammael straddled him digging his knees and then his torso. Zastrow felt cold all over. His limbs became numb. He was scared, trembling. The only warmth he felt was his urine when his bladder let loose. Sammael smiled. He wrapped his hands around Zastrow’s neck. His elongated fingernails dug deep into the soft flesh above his Adam’s apple. He was tearing into his throat—the pain was intense. Time slowed. He couldn’t scream; he gargled and choked. His skin peeled back from around his throat.
Sammael’s fingers sunk into Zastrow’s neck, wrapped around his spine, and twisted until his neck finally snapped. He tugged Zastrow’s head from side to side and after a short struggle, his head uprooted from his neck. Blood gushed heavy and quick from the stump. A smug grin washed over Sammael’s face as he stood and stared at the eight pound head of Officer Zastrow.
He liked taking heads. They were a wonderful souvenir.
Sammael turned toward the store. A smile pulled his cheeks taught as he walked toward the shattered doors.
3
The store was dark. The only illumination was the moonlight as it danced off the white walls. Everything was too quiet, unnerving.
Click. Click.
Confused, Zoelick turned from left to right then tilted his head up to the ceiling. The click of tiles slipping from their grooves floated into his ears. He heard something crawling, but it was coming from the ceiling. His eyes locked on her face. It was a woman, a strikingly good looking woman. She looked down at him with blue eyes that twinkled in the reflective light. As awkward as the situation was, he couldn’t deny this woman’s beauty. She appeared flawless, like an airbrushed model. The moonlight casted a cold spotlight upon her. The back of her silky blonde hair was highlighted, making her appear angelic. Her beauty was undeniable. It was stunning, even as she dropped from the ceiling...he’d never seen a prettier woman.
Somehow—scared as he was—the woman’s physical perfection stole his focus. A slithering vine shot forward from her stomach. It curled around Zoelick’s neck, clutched his throat, and tightened. It happened so fast that he didn’t have time to react. He paid no attention to his service revolver as it dropped to the floor. Within seconds, the gorgeous woman’s beautiful face burned into his memory. His hands shot to his throat. He pried at the slimy, snaky vine.
The attractive woman wrapped her legs around his waist. Her thighs felt like iron, as her feet locked near his pelvis. She crushed his torso and pushed his femur bones outward. Her strength was amazingly intense and she effortlessly popped his hips out of place.
Zoelick could feel his guts churn and compress, his bowels weakening until they let loose. The stink was putrid. His body strained, he couldn’t hold himself. Blood filled his face, his eyes started to bulge to the point they were bursting from their sockets. His vision went hazy. Tears streamed
down his face. Something indefinable moved into his view.
The beautiful woman’s head swiveled forward. Her neck stretched and elongated to unrealistic proportions. Her skin cracked as it stretched. There was crunching and popping noises emanating beneath the skin of her neck. Her head continued stretching—nearly a foot in front of his—yet her body remained clamped on his back. A sick smile pulled taught across her mouth.
The sight of this was so frightening, that Zoelick’s heart wasn’t just pounding—it felt like it was going to explode right inside his chest. Although horrified at what he was witnessing, and in terrible pain, he couldn’t stop looking at her stunning face.
This wasn’t possible. He was going to faint. Distant echoes floated into his ears. Someone was yelling. It was Gardner. But it was too late. Zoelick’s head lifted, tore, and fell from his neck. It hit the tile at the exact moment that his intestines dropped through his rectum. A mass of guts, blood, feces and gore piled on the floor beneath him. His eyes hemorrhaged and fell from his head. The blonde woman shot forward, lunging like a panther, and then she headed for the door and ran outside.
4
Officer Zoelick’s head rolled across the tile floor. His thick brown hair soaked up the blood puddle on the floor, making it look slick, lubricated in dark red fluid. His oval shaped cranium stopped when his nose nudged the bottom portion of a dusty rack. It tilted backward, lolled and stopped.
Gardner was in shock. He wanted to scream. He started forward when suddenly his feet stopped—he froze. His sight flashed white. He was given a vision.
The Last Customer Page 10