Bad Radio

by Michael Langlois

  On its front side, bumps and sinuous ridges chased each other across the face. Disturbing patterns seemed to catch your eye in them, but they never quite resolved into anything you could name. Worse, the light always seemed to be moving subtly across the face of it, making small shadows in the depressions writhe, as if it were reflecting a dim light from elsewhere.

  “Can I see it?” asked Anne. She had the back of one hand pressed to her upper lip.

  “Sure. Bad smell?”

  She took her hand away from her face and accepted the piece from me. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I don’t smell anything,” said Carlos.

  “She’s just delicate.”

  Anne turned it over in her hands. “What is it?”

  “According to the journal, it's a transmitter. Or part of one, anyway,” said Henry. “We think you need all four to broadcast, judging from the way we found it.”

  “Meaning?” she said absently, as she ran her thumb across the depressions.

  “Four of them together make a circle. We found four men nailed to a big wooden table. The feet of each man pointed toward one of the cardinal compass points, but their heads were together in the middle of the table, almost touching. Those spikes on the back were pushed through their eyes.”

  The piece rang as Anne threw it down onto the table. She rubbed her hands on her pants. “Jesus.”

  “The circle was resting across the eyes of the sacrifices. They were still breathing, even though those spikes must have gone deep into their brains. We tried to free them from the table, but as soon as the pieces stopped touching each other, they all died.”

  Carlos looked at Leon. “No shit?”

  Leon shrugged. “If that’s what the man says, then that’s what happened. Hell, it’s probably not even the weirdest thing he’s got stashed away in here.”

  Carlos looked around the barn, a little wild eyed. “That’s great.”

  A picture of that table, black and sticky with blood, flashed in front of my eyes. I still see it in my dreams sometimes. I remembered prying long nails out of one man’s arms and legs, and then the horrified screaming when we jostled the men enough for the metal pieces to stop touching. They didn’t die right away. First they screamed like I’ve never heard anyone scream before or since, as if their mouths and lungs simply couldn’t expel the terror and panic fast enough. Then each of them clawed at the plates where their eyes would be and died. I don’t know what they saw when looking through those metal pieces, but the shock of it is what killed them, not the spikes.

  Leon looked at me across the table. “You say men are coming to get this part of the transmitter or radio or whatever it is?”

  “And soon. I expect that the original owner is ready to put them to use again.”

  “Fuck that shit. No way they’re getting it.”

  “Hell yeah, brother,” said Carlos. “They messin’ with the wrong boys this time.”

  Anne pointed a finger at Carlos. “These guys are really dangerous. Don’t get all cocky.”

  Carlos laughed. “You worried about me, sweet thing? I’m touched. But me and Leon here got it covered. We’re Recon, baby, baddest of the bad. We’ll keep you safe, and you can think of a way to thank me afterwards.”

  “I have no doubt you can handle yourselves,” I said, before Anne could start in on him, “but she’s right. Think junkie loaded up on PCP. You’re going to need a headshot to put them down for good, or at the very least knees and hips to get them on the floor.”

  Carlos crossed his arms and leaned back from the table. “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “No,” said Anne. “I’ve seen it. One of these guys killed my grandfather, and Abe shot him right in the chest. He didn’t even slow down.”

  “Well, junkie or no junkie, I got a little something for him out in the truck.” He laughed and bumped fists with Leon.

  Anne’s head snapped up and her eyes focused beyond the door towards the house. Seconds later, I heard the roar of an engine followed by the dull grinding sound of locked tires sliding to a stop on the loose gravel. “I don’t think you’re going to have time to get your surprise ready for the party. They’re here.”

  11

  Henry swore and threw the artifact back into its strongbox. “I thought you said we had until tonight?”

  “I thought we did.” I ran to the door and pulled it open just enough to peer outside. A North Carolina state patrol car sat in the driveway. The doors popped open and two men sprang out, neither wearing uniforms. The one on the driver’s side was tall and lanky and carried a pistol, probably a Glock by the look of it. The other man was just as tall, but thick and powerful looking. A police-issue combat shotgun dangled from one hand. They turned their backs to me as they ran towards the house. I pulled back and eased the door shut.

  “There’s two of ‘em. Looks like they acquired a police car, which explains how they got here so fast. No sleep and no speed limit changes the game.”

  Anne gaped. “They have a police car?”

  “I’m thinking that they were flying low in whatever car they had, half for the speed and half for bait. As soon a cop showed up, they probably killed him and took his car.”

  “Wait,” said Leon. “If they took his car, then maybe help is already on the way. A lot of patrol cars have GPS locators built into them.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “But I’m not holding my breath. My guess is that if the state could have tracked that car, they would have already stopped them with a roadblock before they got here. We have to assume that nobody is coming.” There was a crash from the house. They had broken down the front door. “Anybody in here armed?”

  “Our shit’s in the truck,” said Leon. “Did you see their gear?”

  “One has a shotgun, likely it came with the car, so that would make it a 12 gauge pump. The other one has a pistol, looks like a Glock. I’d guess that came from the cop as well. Henry, what do you have for us out here?”

  Henry grinned and flipped open the second, larger box that he had brought to the table. Several revolvers and two boxes of bullets rested on a layer of small, brown-stained cotton bags. Several fist-sized cloth bags and coils of dull silver metal were stacked against one end.

  He began passing out guns. “.357s for the gentlemen,” he said, handing the heavy stainless steel weapons to Leon and Carlos, and setting one on the table for himself. He looked at me, and I shook my head. He nodded, having expected that. “And a .38 for the lady,” handing her one of a pair of .38s. “Everyone is already loaded with hollow point rounds, and there’s more ammo in the box. Put some in your pockets. Sorry, but I don’t have any speed loaders.”

  Carlos flipped his cylinder shut with a solid clack and looked at me. “What about you? Can’t shoot?”

  “I’ll be good with this.” I patted the steel baton on my hip.

  “Shit, man. You can’t bring a stick to a gunfight, you know? You need to pick up a piece.”

  “Why should I worry? I’ve got two jarheads to handle these guys, right?”

  “Lucky for you.”

  I smiled at him. Bags are shit with guns, the worms make them shake and tremble when they get excited. They’re also psychotically aggressive and fast as hell, which means they can and will get in close. And they always carry something sharp.

  Everyone jumped at the sound of glass breaking. A dull thump followed. The bags had thrown something heavy out of a window. They knew the piece was around here somewhere, they could probably sense it, but they weren’t sure exactly where. Good thing our side was a little more precise.

  “Anne, where are they?”

  She answered instantly. “Back of the house, in Henry’s bedroom.”

  Carlos snorted. “What are you, Miss Cleo?”

  Leon glanced at Henry, who nodded. “Tell me when they head this way.”

  “Got it.”

  “Henry,” I said, “give me the altar piece.” He handed it to me, and I loosened my belt and tucked
it against my lower back, with the spines pointing outward. I snugged the belt tight between the two spines, strapping it to me. It was cold and unpleasant as hell, but those fuckers already had my piece and Patrick’s. I wasn’t losing this one.

  Another crash from the house. Carlos went to the door.

  “Okay, I think me and Leon should surprise them while they’re busy in the house. Take ‘em out before they know we’re here. You folks stay put.”

  Leon trotted up and put his back against the wall, gun pointed at the ceiling. Carlos stood in front of the door and flexed his fingers on the grip of his pistol. He whispered to Leon.

  “On three, I’ll go right, you go left. Ready?” Leon nodded and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Carlos put one hand on the knob. “One.”

  The door flew open, and Carlos was yanked out of the doorway and into the yard. I moved a split second before Leon, letting me hit him in the legs as he was pivoting into the doorway to pursue. A shotgun boomed as we connected, and Leon was thrown back over my shoulder as I hit the ground.

  I caught a glimpse of Carlos dangling by the neck from the hand of the bigger baitbag as I slapped the door shut from the floor, but it just bounced right back open.

  Carlos’s eyes were a vivid, horrifying red and he was drooling blood from the sudden increase in pressure as his neck was crushed.

  I scrambled to my feet. Leon was already sitting up, his gun pointed squarely through the doorway. The bag was long gone, leaving Carlos in a twisted heap on the grass.

  I crept forward and looked left and right out of the doorway. Nothing. I quickly yanked the door closed to prevent them from being able to target us from outside, and went to check on Leon.

  He was bleeding from the shoulder and the side of his head. The blood was black on his BDU’s. I knelt by his side and inspected the wounds. It looked like he had taken the edge of the blast, with a few pellets tearing through his ear and cheek, and a few more lodging in his shoulder. Two inches over, and he’d be missing half of his head. His eyes never moved from the door, and his hands were rock steady. “Leon, you okay?”

  “Carlos is dead.”

  “I know.”

  “That motherfucker just yanked him off his feet. Just like that. Crushed his neck like a beer can.”

  “Those men aren’t like regular people …”

  “I know what a baitbag is, I’ve heard the stories all my life from my uncle.” He grunted and stood up. “I heard, but I didn’t understand.”

  I stood up with him and pulled the heavy baton from its sheath. It came free with a loud scraping sound. “Anne! What happened to my warning?”

  “He wasn’t there before the door opened! I swear, just in the house!”

  “How many in the house?” I knew better, but I couldn’t keep from asking, the same as I had done to Patrick time and again.

  “How do I fucking know? You smell cookies baking in the kitchen, do you know how many are in there? I’m getting something from the house and the yard now, but a second ago, it was only from the house.”

  “Bags don’t just appear out of nowhere.”

  “You’re the goddamn expert, you tell me.”

  Henry said, “Looks like they can hide themselves somehow.”

  I grimaced. There’s no such thing as a good surprise in a fight. “That’s new.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t recall us ever coming across one trying to sneak around.”

  “Shit.”

  “Hey Abe,” said Anne, “they’re both outside now, moving around.” The sound of a trunk slamming made everyone look at the door. Ten long seconds passed. “Guys? Is it just my nose, or can everyone else smell gas?”

  That’s the great thing about life, it’s never so bad that it can’t get worse.

  Leon sniffed the air. “They can’t burn us out. This building is made of sheet metal. It won’t burn.”

  The door crashed open, propelled by the foot of the massive bag that killed Carlos. Instead of a shotgun, his hands now held a red plastic milk crate full of clear glass bottles. The bottles were full of a pale pink liquid. Gasoline.

  He heaved the crate, but held onto it, launching the bottles through the door. They shattered on the concrete floor, spraying everything between us and the door with fuel and shards of glass.

  A split second after launching the crate, he moved to the side to allow the man behind him to step up holding a single bottle in his hand. The bottle had a burning rag stuffed in the top, the flames barely visible in the strong sunlight. The larger man was already picking up a second crate.

  Leon saved us. His hand snapped up, and he fired twice. The bottle exploded in the man’s hand, engulfing him in a halo of flame.

  Leon, Henry, and Anne all started shooting. The bag that was on fire was screaming and frantically flailing at himself to put out the flames.

  His skin and shirt began writhing and twitching. The worms were feeling the heat as well. He dropped to the ground and started rolling, and I lost sight of him as he moved out of the doorframe to the right.

  The larger one dodged nimbly off to the other side, also out of sight. Leon put two more rounds through the sheet metal to the left, hoping to get lucky. Everyone stopped shooting.

  “We have to move. They can throw some fire in here any second, or more likely, the fumes will get thick enough that we’ll light them off ourselves with the guns. I’ll go out first and draw their attention, you guys count to three and follow. Run for a car. Anyone have their keys?”

  “Mine are in the house, in my purse.”

  “I’ve got mine,” said Leon. “But when I get to the car, I’m going for the trunk, not the driver’s seat.”

  “Don’t argue with me, get in the car and drive away. They won’t follow you, I have the piece.” Leon started to say something, but there wasn’t time to listen. He was going to do what he was going to do, and I wasn’t going to change his mind.

  I ran for the door and leaped out into the sunlight as I crossed the threshold. A shotgun bellowed but missed me. I hit the ground next to Carlos. The next blast wouldn’t miss.

  I dropped my baton and grabbed Carlos’s body by the collar of his shirt, which was sticky and wet, and his belt, and surged to my feet. The man with the shotgun was standing next to the corner of the building, maybe twenty feet away.

  Leon was coming out of the doorway. I apologized to Carlos and hurled the body across the intervening space. The shotgun went off again, and then there was a meaty thud as the two-hundred-pound corpse slammed into the baitbag, knocking him to the ground.

  Leon immediately changed course and ran for the downed bag, or more accurately, the shotgun now lying on the ground a few feet away from it. The bag surged to his feet, effortlessly throwing Carlos’s body to the side, but it was too late. Leon already had the shotgun.

  He fired at point-blank range, catching the bag in the side and tearing open a gaping wound. One of the bag’s fists whipped out and struck Leon in the arm. I could hear the bone break. The force of the blow knocked him backwards on his ass and tore the shotgun from his hands.

  I snatched my baton from the ground and raced forward. The bag was grinning and reaching down towards Leon.

  I covered twenty feet in the time it took for the bag to bend halfway to its target, my right arm pulled back across my chest. The bag never saw me coming.

  I swept my arm outward in a rising arc like a classic tennis backhand, putting all of my strength behind it. When the baton connected, the bag’s head blew apart like a watermelon under a sledgehammer. The body jerked upright from the force of the blow, and then kept going over to topple backwards onto the ground.

  The corpse flexed and the shotgun wound heaved open. Worms spilled out in a glistening mass, covering Leon’s feet. They were gray and muscular like eels, but unlike eels they had no heads. Instead, the end of their bodies simply split into five writhing tentacles. Each tentacle had tiny black teeth on the inward-facing side which were curved like rose thor
ns, and at the center where the tentacles met, a dark red maw clenched and gasped. It was lined with more teeth, and the inner flesh deepened to arterial purple in the center. They twisted and whipped around in a frenzy, bouncing off of the floor with jerking motions so fast and hard that they made snapping sounds in the air.

  The larger worms, each as big around as a garden hose, struck at Leon’s legs, grabbing on with their tentacles and then looping and squeezing with their whole bodies. He screamed as blood began to well up around the tentacles. I could hear the worms sucking at the wounds.

  The corpse bucked once more and an enormous worm streaked out, as thick around as my wrist and covered with black markings that seemed maddeningly close to a pattern that your eye could never quite resolve.

  It was over Leon’s legs and around his waist in an instant, with the head tentacles spreading wide and wrapping most of the way around his chest. It rippled and tensed, and Leon threw his head back and bellowed, the tendons and veins in his neck standing out. Vertebrae broke with a dull crunch.

  I reached down and seized the thing with both hands, feeling the slimy pulse of its muscles under my palms, and it suddenly stopped squeezing. I pulled, and instead of fighting me, it gradually uncoiled and hung limply from my hands, writhing slowly, tentacles spreading and probing the air like some kind of nightmare flower.

  I stepped back from Leon and without warning the worm’s top half vanished in a black spray as Anne blew it apart with the shotgun.

  The other worms went mad all at once, unlatching from Leon and thrashing and keening with a horrible whistling sound. They became blurs as their frenzied thrashing sped up, and then seconds later, they all went limp. They were dead.