by Sahara Foley
Pepper's face went pale, as Carter demanded, “Wait a minute, Alvarez. This is kinda crazy, isn't it? An animal that grows inside people, then eats it way out? And kills and eats more people to grow? You've been watching too many horror movies, man.” Carter kept seeing a scene from a sci-fi flick about some alien animal bursting out of a guy's chest.
Alvarez said calmly, “If you feel that way, by all means, go after it. You will learn. As for me, I have all the proof I need, there on the counter.” He pointed with a thin, brown finger.
Carter handed Rickerman back his radio and stood, striding to the dish-laden, filthy counter. He picked up a food-crusted fork from the slimy kitchen sink and started poking through the gray, smelly glob from the toilet. “All you have here is some human excrement, maybe some muscle or tissue, and a sausage like casing. What is this proof of, Alvarez?”
The small, thin men gestured, “Please, sit. I will try to explain.”
As Carter sat back down, he couldn't help thinking about the small room in the basement, where the floor was dirt, and where his old partner's, Flynn's, one shoe had been found. Carter was trying his hardest to deny the facts.
Alvarez resumed his explanation. “The Tescara, a survivor of the ancient god's, Conquite's, experiments, has long been believed to be a legend. Made up. But it is not. Many years ago, before this country had your Indians, a Tescara was killed. The creature was trapped in deep mud, and the people who lived at that time, killed it with stones. Many people saw it, trapped in a circular pool of mud and what we now know as tar. Today, we know this place as the Le Brea Tar Pits in Southern California. They knew what the creature was, and threw many stones, until it sank in the mud. They did not go out and recover the body, they were satisfied they had seen it sink and die. Because they had destroyed an ancient terror of their ancestors, they celebrated for many days. They were so simpleminded to think it was the only one.
“But there are many Tescara, although they do not reproduce often. They cannot. They are a genetic combination of ancient man and animals that lived back then, and mixed with components only the god Conquite knew. The Tescara survived by adapting to its environment. Until it is born, we, or some of us, are its environment. The unborn Tescara is a strange and complicated organism, which only survives in men. But not all men. Only today's men with the same genetic makeup as the men that Conquite used in his experiments. The rest of what I am telling you is just my beliefs. Please, bear with me again.
“It appears to me all Tescara are male. According to legend, Tescara have been seen near certain types of pools, at night when the moon is full, to ejaculate into these special pools. Their sperm mixes with the other fluids in these pools, and the sperm stays alive, until the proper host is found, where they then began to grow to their birth size. And each full moon of their life span, they must ejaculate into these special waters, to let their semen live until it finds the proper host, then another Tescara is born.
“I believe they are born very small, maybe small enough to hold in your closed palm. But they grow rapidly, and are voracious eaters of flesh, bone, and even the blood-soaked clothing of their victims. I cannot guess at how fast they grow, or how long they live, but I believe they have extremely long life spans.
“And that is what I believe, no, I know happened here. A Tescara was born in that bloody bathroom. But I also believe there was one here before. Indeed, may still be here somewhere. Now, there are two of them, and with all these illegal Mexicans, who would miss one or two now and then? I believe below this house, in this area of Omaha, are tunnels connecting to each house through their basements. And how many other cities all over the world, as well?”
With sad brown eyes, he looked up at Carter. “John, that is what I believe happened to the young couple who once lived here, and your old partner Flynn when he came to investigate their disappearance. If you had been here, you too would know now, as I do, but you would also be dead.
“What you see lying on the counter, once analyzed, will prove the same as what you see here in these small plastic bags in my case. Not human excrement, John, but Tescara. Although the sausage looking casing is human intestine, where I believe the Tescara's sperm lives until birth time.
“Now, I know that being a sane and rational man, of an advanced society, you cannot believe what I am telling you. I understand this, John, and because I can see your officers are convinced I am crazy, and are eager to begin the search for the ME's animal, I shall get in my truck and drive away. But I ask this before I leave, and before you begin, that you listen to me first. Then, I shall leave, knowing I have done all I could to save your lives.” Alvarez stood, walking over to scoop the gory glob off the counter into a bag, dropping the bag in his briefcase, and closing the lid. He picked up his brandy bottle, then sat it back, deciding to leave the brandy with them. He slipped on his suit jacket, straightening it on his thin frame, then calmly placed his hands on top of his closed, overstuffed briefcase.
No one had moved an inch, or spoken a word.
“These other bags I have shown you come from all over the world, where I was able to get the evidence before it was destroyed, thrown away, or flushed. And from friends all over the world who send them to me when confronted with this exact type of death.
“All the victims were young men, different nationalities, but all less than twenty-five and healthy. Each one died horribly, as this young man here did. The oldest sample I have is thirty-one years old. A young Irish boy in Dublin. The earliest sample, before today, came from a small town in Australia I cannot begin to pronounce. I have other samples from England, Germany, Africa, Thailand, Canada, the United States, Russia, and China.
“I am unable to find a pattern, and not being a doctor, I cannot discover the correct genetic combination needed for the birth process to begin. But all these young men had that same genetic combination, of that I am certain. I do not know at what age a host is no longer viable for their birth, so I take no chances.
“Now, John, remember my story about the giant, fiery vessel, the ancient god Conquite arrived in, and the slimy pit? Well, it is my belief, not without reason, the pool that had been a well, was turned into a waste holding tank for the refuse ejected from the vessel. The pool ended up being a septic tank. An ancient one. Probably the first one. And all throughout history, those Tescara seen ejaculating into those special pools? They were sewer drains, or pools where the local people dumped their bodily wastes.
“All over the civilized world, I believe there are Tescara, on nights when the moon is full, doing exactly as their ancestors had done, and they may even be those ancestors. They ejaculate in toilets now, and flush their sperm away, where somehow their sperm stays alive and looks for the proper birth host.
“I know you will find this an outlandish thought, but think for a moment, please. Have you ever sat on a toilet and felt something touch you near your anus, or your genitals? Those are the Tescara sperm looking for the proper genetic combination host to crawl into and be born. I am sure there are many women who have the proper genetic combination, but the Tescara is not born from them. Only in the men.
“So, you all think Alvarez is a crazy fool, then I shall leave you now. Think about what I have told you before you begin your search. Because what you have waiting for you downstairs, and every toilet in the world, is the genetic mutation from the ancient god Conquite.” The thin, little man walked into the living room, where he found his neatly folded overcoat had mysteriously fallen into the puddle of puke, four feet away.
As Alvarez picked his overcoat up, a nervous Rickerman asked, “Uh, Sergeant? Exactly what did you mean when you said that you don't take any chances?”
The thin, little man looked at him, shook his vomit-covered coat out and replied, “Officer, I am fifty-eight years old. I do not know how old a male has to be before he is no longer a viable host to birth a Tescara. Just because, so far, the victims are all young men does nothing to allay my fears. So, it is simple. When you use
the toilet, do not sit down.”
The clanking of heavy chains and spinning of tires echoed around the houses, as the green Blazer slowly plowed through the snowdrifts on the city street. The illegal Mexicans brave enough, peeked out from behind closed curtains, watching the green Blazer as it slipped and slid its way out of the neighborhood. Crowded inside the Blazer were eight people, two in blue police uniforms.
La Muerte
Happy Birthday, old man, John Carter thought with a wry grin. Who would've thought he'd make it to sixty years. He smacked a mosquito that had been buzzing his head, and finally decided to land and take a bite. How did they manage to do that? Land, and bite, at the same time? He shifted around on the uncomfortable wooden picnic table, watching the sun slowly rise over the horizon, the red glow reflecting off the waters of Cunningham Lake.
He shook his head. 1958 seemed so long ago. That was the year he'd been discharged from the Air Force Air Police, then joined the Omaha, Nebraska police force. That was thirty-two years ago, which sometimes felt like several lifetimes ago, especially the last few years. In his ten years as an air policeman and his thirty-two years as a cop, he didn't have one blemish on his record, although he had many distinctions. He had a reputation for being a sane, rational, reliable man.
So why was he planning to do something that sounded crazier and crazier? This plan could ruin thirty-two years of excellent service, and maybe cost him his pension. More than that, his plan could cost him his life, along with the lives of his friends.
Back in March, after his old friend Captain Reames retired, Carter had been promoted from Lieutenant to Captain. Then, in late June, he received a letter from the Mayor's office informing him of his mandatory retirement within the next year. He had maybe one year, but probably less, before he was no longer a detective, but became a man of leisure.
Playing with his spinning rod, he told himself he was crazy, and to forget the whole fiasco. But after last night, then this morning, he knew he couldn't. He had no choice. He had to go through with his life-threatening plan. But he also knew his plan had to be executed while he was still a detective, or the outcome would be meaningless.
As he sat trying to untangle his fishing line from the weeds sticking out from the water's edge, he found himself wishing he HAD been at work. Been anywhere but this lake last night. He didn't want to think about what he had witnessed and heard, but he couldn't stop himself. With a weary sigh, he knew there wasn't any way to go back to his safe, ignorant life either. At 4:01 am, he had started the initial phase of his plan by placing a telephone call, from the brick building that housed the showers and toilets.
That telephone call had been made to a Detective Sergeant named Pete Alvarez. When a half-asleep Alvarez answered the phone, Carter told him, “Pete, this is John Carter. I have to see you today. Bring your briefcase. It's about a Tescara.” Alvarez was suddenly wide awake.
Sweating and shaking, Carter made arrangements for place and time, advising Alvarez to bring a fishing pole. The fishing wasn't exactly the greatest, due in part to a three-year drought in the area, but also in part to the intense heat. When John and his wife, Cathy, had pitched their tent on Thursday, the temperature had been ninety-four degrees. On Friday, it was ninety-six, and today, the third of July and his birthday, the temperature was again supposed to be in the upper nineties.
The weatherman on the TV station Cathy watched had predicted a two-week period of high temperatures in the Omaha Metro area, ranging from ninety-five to one hundred and five. Having already planned his two-week camping and fishing trip, Carter was pleased with the forecast. The best place to be, during the hottest part of the summer, was camping in a tent. Also, being on vacation meant he wouldn't have to deal with all the asinine problems police officers in the city had to deal with when the temperatures soared.
Carter's brother-in-law, Mark Sagano, sauntered over to him carrying a cold beer. They'd been up all night fishing, and the time was now 5:35 pm. Their wives were still sleeping, one in a tent and the other in a pop-up camper.
His wife, along with family and friends, wanted to throw a 60th birthday party for him. Since it was also the Fourth of July weekend, they decided to have his party at one of his favorite area lakes so they could do some camping and fishing. Carter's birthday party had been on Friday, the second, that way his family and friends could still enjoy the rest of the long, holiday weekend.
But Mark and John were old fishing buddies; they got along well and enjoyed each other's company. Their wives would usually go with them, but if not, the men would take off together and go fishing; especially at night, for their favorite eating fish, the catfish. Of course, there were always copious amounts of cold beer, and although they went to catch fish, if they didn't catch any, the lack of fish didn't really matter. Both men and their wives enjoyed being outdoors.
Mark was a pleasant, rotund man at five foot and ten inches who had a basketball-sized beer-belly and worked as the Assistant DA for Douglas County. Over the years, the two men had worked on many cases together, long before Mark had met and married John Carter's sister, Sharon. Mark's marriage to Sharon, back in 1962, hadn't changed their friendship.
After last night, would his brother-in-law want to go fishing with him again? John took a swig of his lukewarm beer. He couldn't blame him. He didn't know if he'd want to go fishing again either.
Siting on the table top, putting his feet up on the seat, Mark demanded, “So, John? Are you going to explain this to me? I know I saw something, and I know you saw it. By the way you acted, you knew what it was. Dammit, man, I have to know!” In all the years he'd known John, he'd never seen his old friend scared, like he was last night.
Looking around, John admonished, “Keep it down, Mark. You want to wake everyone up?”
The younger man scooted closer to John. “Okay, I'm sorry, but dammit, John, this has me going. Either that, or I'm losing my mind or you're humoring me.”
John had two rods in the water, as did Mark. John pointed to one of Mark's bobbers, which was wobbling, rings spreading out in the calm water. Reluctantly, Mark climbed off the picnic table, and went over to his line.
As Mark knelt, ready for the strike, John said softly, “No, you're not losing your mind, and I'm not humoring you. What we saw was there, and it was real. Now, until my friend shows up, I don't want to talk about what we saw. Okay, Mark?”
Mark, jerking on his rod, then reeling, said over his shoulder, “Okay, just as long as you explain what we saw. You know me; I'll go crazy if I don't find out. You have no idea the weird thoughts going through my mind since we saw it.”
Wearily, Carter thought, Probably better than the truth will be, old buddy.
The women awoke, bustling around, doing their normal routines, and the morning progressed.
After being up all night fishing, John and Mark normally went to bed after eating breakfast, but this morning, neither man went to lie down, though they looked more tired than usual after an all-nighter. Both men seemed distracted, the familiar joshing and fish stories suspiciously absent. John was grateful their wives weren't pestering them with unanswerable questions. If he survived his crazy plan, he knew he would have to tell Cathy part of the truth.
Around eleven, John stood, walking over and into their green and white nylon tent. When he ducked back out a few minutes later, instead of the shorts and sandals he'd been wearing, he was dressed in jeans, a white shirt that hung to below his belt, his boots and reflecting sunglasses. When he sat at the picnic table, Cathy stared at him with a quirked brow, staring at the holstered gun on his belt.
Oh boy, here come the questions I don't want to answer. “Honey, pretty soon we're going to have a guest,” John told her with his cop look and voice. “Mark and I have to go talk with him. We'll have lunch and a few beers when we're done. I'm sorry, but I have to do this.”
After over half a lifetime of marriage, Cathy understood the futility of arguing with her husband when he was wearing his cop attitud
e. She smiled, and patted his arm. “Okay, John, but remember today is your birthday. You're supposed to be on vacation, honey. Is this about a case?” She looked at him with concern.
John nodded. “Yes, honey. Maybe the biggest case this country has ever seen.”
She nervously picked at a splinter sticking out of the table. “What is it? Drugs? Gangs? Serial murders? What, honey?”
He smiled at her. “You know I can't talk with you about the case yet. Please, just hold on for a while. I'll tell you when I can.”
Stepping around him, she started rubbing his shoulders. “I know, I know. But sometimes an old lady gets curious, and a little nosey.”
Hearing the sound of a vehicle driving across the graveled, visitor parking lot, John glanced up, watching Alvarez approach in his big, green Blazer. Standing and facing his life partner, he kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose. “Curious? Yes. Old lady and nosey? No.”
Smiling with love, Cathy watched John's tall, lean figure as he walked toward the visitor's lot.
Trying unsuccessfully to nap in a chair in the shade, when Mark heard John's receding footsteps, he struggled from the reclining lawn chair and followed.
Both wives watched as their husbands talked with the man in the green Blazer, frequently pointing across the lake. Then, John climbed into the front seat, while Mark got into the back. Soon, the Blazer was gone from sight. A short time later, eating lunch in the shade, neither Cathy nor Sharon noticed the three men walking in the field directly across the narrow end of the lake from where they were camping.
Wading slowly in the knee-high, green weeds, the men stopped next to a small pool of shining water. Detective Sergeant Pete Alvarez was a short, painfully thin man. The Sergeant was picking around in the weeds, using a magnifying glass, Mark standing fifteen feet away, holding the Sergeant's big, overstuffed briefcase.