by Bryan Smith
Trey knew what that meant. And the prospect of it frightened him almost as much as Myra. They thought he was a head case. So they were gonna lock him up in some padded room, somewhere deep in the bowels of a horror movie madhouse, where he’d spend the rest of his days doped up on tranquilizers, and even that would provide no relief—Myra’s voice would always speak inside his head.
Trey stared at the scratched surface of the interrogation room table. He heard voices in the hallway. One of them was the detective. Myers. His voice was too dim for Trey to distinguish much, but he heard enough to get the gist—Jake was coming back. He still wasn’t sure why his brother had left in the first place. Trey didn’t know the guy very well, but he sensed there was something broken inside him. Not in the usual McAllister way. He was a smart dude. And accomplished. He’d done something with his life. But that sense of something wrong inside him was strong. He didn’t seem able to cope with the harsher side of life. It made Trey sad. If he didn’t get sent to the loony bin, Jake would be expected to take care of him.
Which meant Jake would have to deal with Myra.
And Trey knew his brother would be as powerless against her as anyone else.
Maybe more so.
I can’t let it happen, he thought.
I have to die.
The laughter filled his head again.
And this time Myra spoke: Oh, Trey, such a grandiose sense of importance you have. You were never important, little boy. You were a means to an end. You’ve served your purpose. You want to die? Okay.
Trey frowned.
Maybe Myra was just fucking with him some more, but he didn’t think so. She got off on making him think his torment would be eternal. She reveled in his pain and humiliation. He’d been forced to endure agonizing physical punishments. If the police ever got a look at the welts covering his body, they’d assume the marks were inflicted by Jolene. And he’d been made to do such vile things. Though he hadn’t willfully killed anyone, his body had been used as a killing instrument. Even now, if she wanted to, she could pull his strings from afar, make him do something to himself.
Or to someone else.
But now she was through with him?
He flashed back to his suicidal thoughts of a few moments ago, and now he found he didn’t want to die just yet. He had to warn people, let them know what was going on in Rockville. But who would believe his crazy story? The police? Like hell. Jake? Probably not. Kelsey and Will would believe him. But they were kids, too. No adult would ever believe any of them. Still, he would have to try. And soon. If Myra meant to have him killed, he would be killed. There was no way around it. So fuck it, he’d spill his guts to Myers when the detective returned. Caution be damned. Let them toss him in that padded cell and throw away the key. At least he would have tried something. And maybe—just maybe—Myers would be smart enough to take a longer look at some of the odd things that had been going on in his town.
He heard a scuff of boots on the room’s tiled floor. He looked up in time to see the guard posted at the door moving toward him. The uniformed female officer was pulling her service pistol out of its holster.
Trey gasped. “No.”
The officer was tall and slender. Her long, blonde hair was pinned back. Trey was sure she was one of the women he’d seen in the clearing that first night. The gun looked large and imposing, bigger than life, like a cannon wielded by an angry goddess. It was aimed at the narrow space between his eyes.
The woman thumbed back the hammer and grinned. “Now you die.”
The voice was Myra’s. It sounded strange emanating from the blonde officer. Her mouth just hung open while the words came forth: “It’s going to look like you attacked this woman. You’re unstable. You’re ill. She’ll kill you in self-defense.” Myra’s laugh came out of the woman’s open mouth. “Are you ready for the bullet? Your brains will look lovely painted all over that drab wall.”
Again, the laughter.
“Nobody will ever believe that.” Trey glanced pointedly at the video camera mounted high on the wall in a corner of the room. “It’ll all be on tape.”
Myra’s vessel looked at the camera. “Oops.” Then she looked at Trey again. “No matter. This acolyte is expendable. Her sacrifice will be rewarded in the next world. Say goodbye, Trey.”
Trey screamed.
The door to the interrogation room flew open and two uniformed cops ran in. The blonde officer whirled around as they were drawing their weapons. One of them, a muscular black man, had just pulled his 9mm clear of its holster when a hard, concussive noise filled the room. The black man’s life ended as a bullet penetrated his brain. He hopped backward and spasmed before falling to the floor, blood jetting from the opening at the back of his head. Another bullet knocked down the other officer, and the blonde woman swung back around, again aiming the gun at Trey’s head.
Trey felt paralyzed. There’d been times in his life, especially after seeing a particularly thrilling action movie, when he’d visualized himself in a situation like this. He always saw himself acting decisively, heroically, making some kind of bold move. He’d never imagined this. He felt impotent. He was a coward. Myra, whatever she really was, had been right about that.
So Trey just stood there, waiting for the bullet that would end his life.
The woman advanced on him, keeping the gun aimed at that place between his eyes. She backed Trey all the way to the wall. He whimpered and began to slide to the floor.
Other people entered the room. He heard raised voices. Screaming. Someone out in the hallway was crying hysterically. There was a shouted command. He recognized Myers’s voice. He was telling the blonde woman to put down the gun. Telling her he would shoot her. As if that mattered. Trey almost laughed. There was no way Myers could know this woman was one of Myra’s acolytes. No way he could know no threat would sway her from this task.
The barrel of the gun pressed against his lips.
He heard Myra’s voice again: “Suck it.”
Trey was as helpless as ever. He opened his mouth and drew in the barrel of the gun. He licked the cold steel, and the blonde woman moved the barrel in and out of his mouth, mimicking the motion of a thrusting cock.
He heard Myers say, “Jesus fuck…”
Someone else said, “Aw, shit, man. Fucking shoot her!”
This was the voice of his brother. Trey felt an instant of mortification at the thought of Jake seeing him like this. But then he laughed around the barrel of the gun. He was about to die, but Myra would lose this follower. And maybe the strangeness of the blonde woman’s behavior would merit investigation of possibilities the cops might otherwise have ignored.
Trey saw Myers move into view over the blonde woman’s shoulder. The man was big and beefy. He had a helmet of thick black hair and a bushy black mustache. His brown eyes looked hard and determined. He placed the barrel of a 9mm pistol against the blonde woman’s temple. “Let’s stop this right now, sugar.” The cop’s accent was old-time Southern-fried hard-ass. “You don’t wanna hurt this boy. And I don’t wanna shoot ya. But I sure as shit will put a hole through your fuckin’ head in about one more second if you don’t step off.”
The woman’s head snapped toward him, and she flashed him a feral grin. “Okay.”
She eased the pistol from Trey’s mouth.
A look of uncertainty crossed Myers’s face. The detective knew something unnatural was happening here. Trey could see it in the man’s eyes. He wanted to cry. He thought there was at least a ghost of a chance this man might believe his story now.
Then a forced grin replaced the uncertain look. “That’s a good girl. Put the gun in my hand.”
Keeping the barrel of his own gun on her temple, Myers extended a hand.
Her smile then was saccharine sweet. “Yes, sir.”
A strangled cry emerged from Trey’s throat. He wanted to scream at Myers not to trust her, but he couldn’t get his vocal cords to work. He wasn’t paralyzed with fear, not this time, but
Myra was again pulling his strings. He seethed with frustration.
The woman’s gun grazed Myers’s fingertips.
Then, before the detective could react, her hand moved with superhuman speed and jammed the barrel of the gun against the detective’s stomach. She squeezed the trigger twice, and the detective staggered backward. Blood blossomed across the front of his starched white shirt as he tumbled dead to the floor. His gun flew out of his hand, struck the wall close to Trey, and spun across the floor. The other officers that had entered the room behind Myers were shooting at the female cop and she was returning fire. As Trey stared up at her, chunks of blood-red meat flew from her back as her tan uniform blouse turned a dark shade of crimson.
Yet she remained on her feet, firing until her gun clicked empty.
Someone yelled at her to drop the gun.
Trey was flabbergasted.
Didn’t these people get it yet?
This bitch was not about to surrender.
She ejected the 9mm’s spent clip and calmly reached to her belt for a fresh clip. She slammed the clip home, racked a bullet into the chamber, and aimed again. The stupid Rockville cops finally decided to start shooting again, but they continued directing their fire at her torso.
Fuck it, Trey thought.
He pushed away from the wall and scrabbled across the floor. Two more of Rockville’s finest fell down dead before he managed to get to his feet with Myers’s gun in hand. Imitating the two-handed firing stance of the cops, he aimed the barrel at the side of the woman’s head and pulled the trigger. The bullet punched a hole through her head just above her ear, and a red spray like water shooting out of a hose erupted from the other side of her head. The force of the shot threw her sideways, but, to Trey’s astonishment, she still managed to remain upright. Goddamn, it was like trying to kill a zombie in a video game. And if he’d learned nothing else of value from playing video games, there was at least this—nothing succeeds like overkill.
So Trey moved in and fired another bullet through the center of her face.
She fell back against the wall.
Trey fired again.
And again.
Until the gun was again empty and the blonde woman’s head was a pulped ruin.
Somehow, her body was still upright, but it jerked like a malfunctioning mechanical doll. Then, all at once, the life went out of her, and she dropped like a lead weight to the floor.
Trey’s heart was hammering.
Someone said, “Fucking finally.”
Trey derived little real satisfaction from stilling this agent of Myra’s wrath. He knew all too well she could make him turn the gun on himself if she wanted. But he didn’t feel her presence in his head now. She’d retreated, at least for the time being.
He felt sick.
This was all a game to her.
All these dead cops.
A grand distraction.
He flinched when his brother laid a hand on his shoulder. “She’s going to kill us.” He turned to look into Jake’s shocked face. “She’s going to kill us all.”
Jake’s expression was strained. “It’s gonna be okay.”
He didn’t sound like he meant it. Not one little bit.
Shuddery laughter trickled out of Trey’s mouth. “No. No, Jake, it’s not.”
Another suit-and-tie-clad detective escorted them out of the room. Trey kept his eyes closed until he was in the hallway.
He didn’t want to see any more blood.
Not now.
Not ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jordan awoke with a start when she felt something cold graze the back of her hand. She jerked the hand away from the side of the bed, over which it’d been dangling while she slept. Her heart thudding, she sat and searched frantically about the room for the intruder.
But she was alone.
She sighed. “Shit.”
The obvious occurred to her—she’d been dreaming again. An unwelcome touch in her dream had seemed real. It was a sensible explanation, and just thinking it had the immediate effect of calming her.
Until she heard the sound of something skittering across the floor behind her. She gasped and spun about on the bed, again scanning the other side of the room. She saw nothing. There was a temptation to chalk up the sound to a mind befuddled by too many tranquilizers, but a strong voice rose within her.
That was NOT your imagination!
Jordan trembled as she remained rooted to the center of the bed. There was something in the room with her. Some animal. Maybe a snake. Her trembling became more pronounced as images of venom-spitting snakes entered her head. She had long feared snakes.
How would a snake have gotten into her room?
She didn’t know. Nor did she care. All she knew was that it was here, probably coiled up beneath her bed right now. She visualized moving off the bed—and in her mind saw the snake dart out from under the bed to sink its dripping fangs into her bare ankle.
Jordan whimpered.
She remembered the cold sensation of something grazing the back of her hand. Now she was almost certain she hadn’t dreamed it, that the snake had been inspecting her, looking for a suitably juicy morsel of flesh to clamp its jaw around. On some level, Jordan realized what she imagined wasn’t typical snake behavior, but, as was so often the case, fear overwhelmed logic.
The snake was here.
She believed it wholeheartedly.
And she was trapped on this bed, as helpless as an abandoned baby in a stroller. She sensed movement to her left. A rustling. With as much caution as she could muster, she inched closer to the edge of the mattress and looked at the floor at the side of the bed. Something pushed against a dangling bedsheet, stretching the fabric and pulling the sheet away from the bed.
This did not look like the head of a snake distending the fabric. Whatever it was, it was too large, too lumpish. An idea came to her, something that made her feel foolish. This was no snake. But maybe it was a cat. How a cat would have gotten into her apartment she had no clue, but she found herself eager to embrace the idea. It was possible that a cat had slipped through the front door when she’d ejected Bridget from her apartment. She’d been so upset she might not have noticed. The cat could have been hiding under her bed all day, frightened out of its wits by its new surroundings. The cold sensation she’d experienced a few moments ago had probably been the cat’s nose sniffing at her hand, trying to determine whether she was a trustworthy biped.
Jordan smiled, feeling a sudden warmth toward the cat. “Here, kitty, kitty…”
The thing from underneath the bed slipped free of the sheet, revealing itself to Jordan for the first time. It was not a cat. Jordan didn’t know what it was. It looked reptilian, with scaly green skin, a gargoylelike head, and a wide, froggy mouth brimming with rows of sharp, glistening teeth. A forked tongue emerged between two of the teeth and slithered toward her face. She felt it on her chin and knew then what she’d really felt moments before.
She screamed.
Instinct propelled her backward off the bed. Her ass struck the floor hard and a bolt of pain arced up her spine and jabbed into her head. The creature’s head popped into view a moment later. Its mouth widened and the rows of teeth seemed to lengthen. A steady hiss emerged from the mouth, and the forked tongue flicked in and out. A pair of three-fingered hands appeared, gripping the edge of the bed as the thing began to stand. The sight of its body, with its long, multijointed limbs and elastic, segmented torso, sent a ripple of repulsion through Jordan.
It was hideous.
And it was coming for her, an awful hunger evident in its dark, pulsing eyes. Jordan screamed and lurched to her feet, galvanized by adrenaline. She felt fully alive for the first time all day, all five senses engaged as the sluggishness she had felt since that morning gave way to a single, clear purpose—escape. Through the bedroom doorway and down the hallway she dashed, her mind intent only on getting to her front door. She had a good head start on the creatur
e, but she heard its pursuit with a heart-jolting clarity, the razor-sharp nails of its three-fingered hands scraping along the corridor walls behind her.
She sprinted through the living room and reached the front door. Her hand closed around the knob. Alarming thoughts flashed through her mind in a fraction of a second. She didn’t have her keys, therefore she couldn’t use her car. Her feet were bare. She didn’t have a clue what she would do once she was on the other side of this door. But she had no time to contemplate the implications of any of that, so she yanked the door open, stepped outside and pulled it shut behind her. Would a thing like that know how to work a doorknob? She didn’t know. Jesus Christ, she didn’t even know what in the goddamn hell that fucking abomination was. It had managed to get into her apartment somehow, so she had to believe it could work its way out. And that meant she had to keep moving.
Get down those stairs.
Maybe run down the street to the QuikMart, get one of those stoner clerks to call 911.
And she would have done just that had the staircase been unobstructed. She got to the first step, glanced down, and loosed a shrill cry. There were more things there. Awful, grotesque creatures that looked like mutations, like things that couldn’t exist outside of nightmares. Long, slithering snakelike things and smaller variations of the lizard-monster she’d locked in her apartment. Some of them looked malformed, like genetics experiments gone horribly awry, with misshapen heads and eyes protruding from stalks, elongated, twisted jaws with long teeth that curled over bloated lips. When they saw her, they became agitated, bouncing and chittering, some of them communicating excitedly in a language she didn’t recognize.
She backed away from the monstrous horde, turned and ran to the other end of the landing. She banged on the door to Todd’s apartment, screaming for help and eying the approach of the strange creatures with mounting panic.
Then the door opened and she was greeted by a sight so startling it made her forget her terror for a moment. She’d forgotten all about Bridget and how she’d sleazed her way into Todd’s place, but it all came back to her now. Bridget shrieked with delight.