by Dan Cummings
Forced with another binary choice of certain death and probable death, Neil didn’t know where to begin his search, up the uninviting stairway leading to more LED-spruced drug chic or straight down the long hallway — past the afro-corpse and bullet-festival adjoining rooms — to what looked to be a kitchen. Racing footfalls made short work of the porch and caught Neil in a moment of indecision; if he ran now Staubach would have a free shot at his spine.
Dashing into the foyer, hunched over his bad leg like he was impersonating a hunchback, Staubach was slammed into the flaky plaster wall by a living shadow. Neil kneed him in his stab wound, eliciting another spasmodic trigger squeeze. Grappling like two wild beasts, the pair of them rebounded off both walls in the hallway, several gunshots from the wild shoot-out in the opposite room punching through the wall and narrowly missing their thrashing. Neil dug his thumb into the gash on Staubach’s wrist, making him roar out in anger and pain, the gun loosing off several more shots in a rising arc. Neil slammed Staubach’s gun hand against the solid doorframe several times, each bash lighting his knuckles up with stinging electrical jolts. The gun slipped from Staubach’s grip. Neil felt a blaze of searing pain race across his right eye, Staubach’s knuckles grinding along the stitches.
Neil backed away, wincing, a hand hovering protectively over the still-raw scar. Staubach didn’t give him a moment, whipping his switchblade out from his pocket and slashing at him, toying with him. Breathing heavy, the sounds of bullets and shouts still deafening, Neil’s attention was mesmerised by the silver blade, throwing colourful reflections through the air like a razor-sharp rainbow. With more luck than intent, he secured the knife hand after craning his face away from one of the wild slashes. Staubach charged like a bull, throwing his shoulder into Neil’s midsection and toppling the both of them into the frenzied maelstrom of the living room.
Plaster dust sifted like a dry mist, particulate matter glittering from the strobe lights. A number of bodies lay still and either dead or dying, some of them gun-toting hoods, others drugged-up wrecks. Neil and Staubach landed right in their midst, as an effluvium of voided bladders and bowels from the dead assaulted their nostrils. With his weight dropping down onto Neil, Staubach knocked the wind right out of Neil’s sails and brought the knife point to the side of his neck. Before he could puncture Neil’s carotid, he got full disclosure of exactly what was causing this ruckus, and his attention was stolen by the acrobatic little goblin latched onto Renshaw’s broad back with its fingers hooked into the big screaming man’s eye sockets. From its perch, a huge muscular tongue slapped onto Tully’s Adam’s apple like an adhesive blob. Gagging at the pressure from the huge lump of tongue, Tully went to take his shot at the frenetic target, his mind still trying to comprehend that this kid’s fucking bedtime story was legitimate. Frogmore withdrew, the tongue reeling in and bringing most of Tully’s throat with it in a shower of gore. Tully’s shots went wide, strafing across Renshaw’s heaving chest, the blind man’s suffering being shut off as one stray bullet pierced his heart.
The pushers and mobsters had all been put down, all except for Grainger. Wiping a smear of someone else’s blood across his cheek stubble, he jittered, hysteria rising in his eyes, and tried to jack another round into the shotgun. It was empty and all he had managed to hit was shadows and ugly peeling wallpaper. Throwing a quick glance at Staubach and Neil frozen mid-combat in the adjoining room of dead muscle and clientele, he allowed himself one last look of wondrous horror at the frog-boy playfully hopping off the shoulders of Renshaw’s collapsing corpse. Grainger ran for the kitchen, the little amphibian hopping jauntily after him and leaving the massacre in his wake.
‘He’s real…’ Staubach whispered in awe.
Neil took the opportunity, hiking one knee up into Staubach’s testicles, feeling the knife tip only graze his jawline before falling away. Wheezing like an asthmatic, Staubach clutched his groin, rolling aside and as an afterthought, feebly attempted to bury the knife in Neil’s ankle as he scrambled over the body of a heavily tattooed skinhead with a pipe in one hand and a semi-automatic in the other. Wrenching the gun from the corpse’s death grip, Neil quickly turned back and rose up, a calm and clinical voice succinctly addressing him in his mind; do it. He was barely able to keep his entire arm from shaking, he’d be lucky if he managed to hit the floor, but he somewhat lined the iron sights up on the frantic Staubach. Neil was planning on maybe just hitting him in the legs, but knew that even that could probably kill him if he hit an artery.
I’m not a killer.
Staubach hobbled out expediently for someone with a punctured leg and swollen balls, back into the foyer, and turned left for the front door. It provided only mild relief for Neil, knowing that on top of everything else, he at least wouldn’t be adding first degree murder to his list of atonement. The gun felt like a necessary evil in his hand, dirty and unwanted, and with a pang of shame, he hoped Frogmore would be able to finish this for him. Neil hastily stepped over the network of splayed limbs and dashed after Frogmore and the guy who had the shotgun.
*****
Lindsey’s nerves were fried from the bullet-fest outside. A number of shots had haphazardly cut through the walls and peppered the kitchen, at about which time the fruitcake in the lab coat had seemed to honour his word. Dragging her by the back of the chair, he had pulled them through the plastic sheeting at the rear of the kitchen and into a surprisingly well-kept and sterile lab in comparison to the rest of this dump. The air was room temperature, tanged with the scents of chemicals and sterilizing agents. Large rows of benches were draped with plastic sheeting, protecting what appeared to be some form of plant within.
Hurst raced over to the worktop beside a large industrial fridge and tanks of chemicals and hoses, retrieved a scalpel and hurried back to Lindsey, at which point she noticed the blood seeping quickly from his abdomen, spoiling the white coat with a growing rosebud. With a groan, he knelt down and began cutting through the duct tape on her wrists and ankles. ‘It sounds like my boss’s operation is pretty much finished. I’m sorry about this, your friends, it’s an absolute disaster.’ He vigorously shook off the clingy tape and backed away from Lindsey, further demonstrating that he intended no harm or trickery, dropping the scalpel on the countertop.
Nudging his pallid sweat-beaded face towards the sounds of eerie calm emanating through the house, he seemed to be accepting the worst. ‘If my beliefs are further validated…I would very much like to bear witness to the being responsible for this. There is a back door over there, go. RUN!’
Lindsey was a bundle of fiery calm. ‘I’m not leaving without Neil or Sam.’
Hurst skewed his head down at her, flinching from a flash of pain which was quickly overcoming the adrenaline swimming through his vascular system. ‘The shooting may have stopped but that doesn’t mean your boyfriend and his other friend came out on top.’
A husky form blew through the plastic sheets, breathing heavy and reeking of cologne and desperation. Grainger practically spat with his volume, ‘Why is she free?’ His glare could have cut steel; he dropped the club that was his empty shotgun and swiped up the scalpel, one big paw forcefully clutching Lindsey as he took her as a hostage, the cool surgical sting of the steel an inch from her throat. ‘That…thing in there, it’s impossible. What the fuck is it, huh? A mutant…that’s what it is. Some Chernobyl, radiation shit.’
Hurst seemed halfway between composed and grateful, his work might finally be making some progress. As he held up his blood-wet fingers, his tone was placid, fascinated; ‘What does it look like?’
‘You’ll see any fucking minute,’ Grainger sniped, slowly backing further away from the plastic partition. ‘This can’t be real.’
‘You didn’t believe me,’ Hurst said with a sad smile.
‘Of course I didn’t fucking believe you! This is horse shit, this can’t be happening. All my guys, taken out by some fucking little creep, jumping all over the place.’ Lindsey was struggling against his o
ne-armed bear hug. ‘Sorry about this, darlin’. But you have your boyfriend to thank for all of this.’
Hurst made a rebuttal, using his free hand to hold himself on one of the plastic-draped benches. ‘No, it was my drug. My curiosity. My legacy. My fault. Ralph, please let her go.’
‘It wasn’t you who killed Jason. That’s on her fella.’
The plastic flaps whooshed open like transparent bat wings. Froggy strode in upright on his hind legs. Lindsey gasped, speechless, her palm sealing her open mouth. Hurst regarded the strange being like he was some beautiful deity, almost weeping.
‘Okay, you deformed piece of shit, you’re here to help Karp, right? ’Cuz he won’t be too happy when I cut this bitch’s throat. Now stay the fuck back,’ Grainger ordered with spittle, the doubt pushing through his imperiousness.
‘Such vulgarity in language and nature. You saw what I did to your friends back there, do you really think you have an upper hand here?’ Frogmore asked politely, his manner making a mockery of the massacre he had just wrought.
‘Don’t fuck with me, little cunt. I’ll kill her.’ Grainger sold it well this time, the scalpel nicking a soft trail of crimson from her neck.
Frogmore seemed to smile at him, daring him to make good on his word. Grainger’s bushy black brows shuddered, the challenge on his face slowly collapsing under the tension. If he killed her now he had nothing, and he didn’t put any faith in his athletic ability to sprint out the back and escape from this thing.
Frogmore continued to wait him out, encouraging him to do his worst, reckless of Lindsey’s outcome. ‘Your nephew cried a lot for a tough guy.’
Grainger was about to scream at Frogmore, unformed inarticulate rage released without being structured into pronounced fists. Neil burst in, absorbing the scene before him, his eyes pleading at the sight of the scalpel scraping along the fine skin of Lindsey’s neck. ‘Froggy…’ he whispered, needing some peaceful negotiation which would remove her from harm’s way.
Frogmore hid his disappointment; another few seconds of instigation and the fool might have killed her for him. Instead, his tongue flashed out with masterful precision, sticking to the back of Grainger’s hairy hand, a thick coating of organic glue fixing itself to the skin. Pulling back, the tongue yanked the parcel of pale flesh and muscle away, the scalpel trailing through the air and clattering off the wall. Lindsey elbowed Grainger in his paunch and broke free, rushing over to the doorway, but keeping her distance from Neil and Frogmore. Neil felt a burn of regret and shame over her mistrustful distance but couldn’t blame her. She obviously knew by now what all this was about. Tears burned in Grainger’s eyes and his teeth bared in pain, he clasped his wounded hand tight to his chest, soaking his sweat-stained tank top and paisley short-sleeve shirt.
‘Your other friend is upstairs in the attic,’ Hurst informed, clearly making peace with how this was going to play out. ‘You might want to hurry.’
Neil and Lindsey raced out of the lab without comment. Grainger accused Hurst of treachery with nothing more than an angry glance. The tongue sprang forth again, snaking around Grainger’s ankles and hoisting him onto his side in a graceless, painful heap, the impact of his ribs on the linoleum deflating his lungs with a deep WHOOF. Hurst stood by, mutely astonished as the tongue reeled Grainger effortlessly to Frogmore’s feet like it was a fishing line.
Screaming protests, begging Hurst for help and fruitlessly scratching at the smooth floor for a hand hold, Grainger came to rest before the four-foot atrocity. Physics and size meant nothing to something like Frogmore; the small creature pinned the blight of Birch Creek, Michigan, to the floor with nothing more than one webbed foot on his tank top and chest of black curls. The tongue languidly coiled around his neck, securing a firm grip. Frogmore pressed his foot down harder on Grainger’s chest, solidifying his leverage, and slowly reeled his tongue in. It was like a tug of war, the flesh, muscle and tendons of Grainger’s neck gradually yielding in their struggle, sections of skin splitting apart to unbearable screams of pain like red mouths. With one final blur of motion and blood, Grainger’s head was pulled from the ragged stump of his neck, the arteries from the truncated muscle gushing forth across the lab’s floor. The head bulged within Frogmore’s slimy cheeks, seeming like an impossible meal. With the aid of his bulbous eyes, their shifting movement helped push the head down into his stomach.
Sighing like he had just had the best meal of his life, Frogmore looked up at Hurst with interest, ‘You’re taking this rather well?’
Crankenstein was starting to feel faint, fumbling towards the countertop behind him and sliding down to the floor. ‘I’ve met something like you before. It was my drug which allowed you to meet Neil.’
Frogmore slowly lifted his head in understanding. ‘Ah, so you caused that spill in the pond.’
Hurst began to look sad, his eyes damp, sensing that all his years of work would essentially come to nothing. He hadn’t managed to concoct a strain of Fable with one hundred percent efficacy, he didn’t have any contacts in the criminal chemistry circles who believed in anything remotely like a race of creatures beyond our current perceptions to continue his work. Still, at least he got to see another one before he died. An entity unknown to most of mankind. ‘Not the spill — that was the competition — but I designed the drug.’ He ripped the glass vial off his necklace and handed it over to Frogmore.
The debonair amphibian inspected the butterfly’s gift, wrapping it up in his webbed hand, ‘Then I believe I owe you a thank you. I used to tell Neil that my kind were on invisible safari, travellers spotting exotic creatures. Truth of the matter is, we’re not really the observers. We’re the ferocious beasts. Your drug was the fishing line and I was the prize catch.’
Hurst clenched his jaw in pain. ‘Where do you come from?’ He saw his reflection in those huge yellow orbits.
Frogmore could instinctively tell that this strange skinny visionary would be susceptible to indulging in any fantasy he sold him, for he was already a believer. ‘Maybe you’ll find out on the other side.’
Chapter 42
Panting at the peak of the house, Neil or Lindsey hadn’t exchanged a single word until reaching the foreboding doorway, the crisis at hand had proven too vital to warrant finger wagging and outrage.
After he put everything he had behind several savage kicks, the door stood proud. The pistol still waited warmly in his grip. ‘I’ve never fired a gun before, watch out.’
Lindsey covered her ears and took several steps back. Neil held the barrel close to the handle, squinted in anticipation and hoped for the best. Only three bullets remained in the clip but it was enough. The explosive shots were terrible in the narrow hall, but the door handle sagged out of the chewed-up wood. Bursting in, wielding the gun like a bludgeon from any inexplicable threat, Neil quickly skidded to a halt, causing Lindsey to almost collide into the back of him. They appraised the sight before them with shock.
Sam, sweating, panting, decorated with small cuts and signs of struggle, had one knee pressed into some ghastly-looking individual’s back, pinning him to the floor of the red room and choking him to death with a garrotte of red Christmas lights. The wet choking pleas clicking out of the bandaged and mutilated mouth sounded like Squiggles or squiddles. It was difficult to discern the broken syllables. In death, the monstrous stranger thudded face first onto the dusty wood. Sam rolled off the body, gulping in air, traumatised and distant. Neil and Lindsey rushed over, wary of the recently deceased.
‘Sam, thank fuck you’re okay. Who the hell’s that?’ Neil held his hand out.
Sam knocked it aside. ‘Okay?’ He showed his left hand, caked in layers of blood, ‘They cut my finger off.’ As he got to his feet, his face clammy and greasy from sweat and nausea, his countenance burned holes through Neil. ‘If we survive this, we need to have some fucking serious words.’
Neil stared at him, then to Lindsey, back to Sam, completely incapable of finding any explanation to remotely make up f
or this entire surreal waking nightmare. His guilt-laden expression stood in lieu of his failed apology. Lindsey watched him, trying to figure out how such a seemingly nice ordinary guy could be connected to that bizarre little beast downstairs. It hurt her head just trying to understand how something that couldn’t possibly be, which flew in the face of science and logic, somehow was. It was too much of a leap.
She nodded towards the latest victim in this bloodbath instead. ‘Who is that?’
Sam still clutched his hand tenderly, his face the colour of smeared ash. ‘Sticky. He was a rival dealer.’ Sam scraped his disgusted attention from the man he had just been forced to murder. ‘These sick bastards doped him up with the same shit as you, Neil. He had a friend of his own…Mr Scribbles.’ Neil and Lindsey suddenly spun about, inspecting every ill-lit corner for another illegal alien. Sam shook his head weakly, ‘There’s no one else here. I guess they weren’t as co-dependent.’
The swirling mix of emotions and stress started to clear softly and Sam remembered a minor little detail which was about to drop the floor out from under them, yet somehow, his agony and lingering stress allowed him to embrace it with a fatal smirk. ‘Frogmore framed you for Lloyd’s death. Those bastards downstairs said your wallet was by the pool. Thought you might like to know.’
This information slowly leaked through Neil like viscous oil and it all came flooding back; the night at the cinema, Frogmore showing up in the restroom, trying to stay in his good graces after his jovial little bout of unrequested homicide, grabbing his jacket to feign honesty and trust. ‘I had my suspicions.’
A creaking board alerted the three of them. Frogmore was standing just outside the room looking incredibly pleased with himself. ‘We did it, gang. Those guys won’t be hassling you anymore.’
Neil didn’t share the congratulatory sentiment and as for Sam and Lindsey, they took a half-step back from the gloating cheer in those untrustworthy yellow eyes. The pair of them seemed to be sizing up the moment, checking to see how Neil was going to handle this terrible revelation but knowing deep down that there could be no harmonious conclusion. Frogmore laid his hands on Neil’s arms affectionately. ‘We did it, pal. You’re safe.’ He quickly added Sam and Lindsey into the little circle of dark unity and collusive murder. ‘We’re all safe.’