The Bloodspawn

by Michael McBride

  In addition to what sounded like footsteps above, they could hear the house swaying in the wind atop the crumbling foundation. The creaking and groaning had at one point gotten so loud that it sounded as though a tornado was passing over head, trying to rip the house free from the rusted bolts that held the walls to the cracking cement ring beneath. There were so many noises around them at times that he feared they wouldn’t even notice when Matt entered the room.

  He quickly forced that thought from his mind. While he was making a conscious effort to convert the name Matt to the bloodspawn in his own mind, he knew that was going to be impossible while he was still able to put a face to the name. There was still so much guilt surrounding what had happened so many years ago, so much pent up longing to make things right, that he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to dissociate the two. But when the time came, he knew, or at least he hoped that he knew, that he would be able to raise that gun and stare right down the muzzle over the sight at his former friend’s face and pull the trigger. Shucking back the shells over and over until he had released every ounce of the hot spray of steel pellets that the gun would offer. Deep down hoping to stand over the bloody, splattered remains and know that he had… what?

  Had what? Saved the lives of two hundred people? Maybe. But the real problem was that even if he killed Ma… the bloodspawn, he would never truly know if he had saved those lives. All he would know for sure was that he had saved his own. And would that be enough, even within his own mind, to justify murdering his best friend, even after having watched him tear apart several people, stealing their lives from them in the briefest of seconds.

  Only he would know the answer, and he knew that it would be the last thing he thought about at night, and, should he even be able to sleep, the first thing that entered his mind when he awoke.

  But that was a moot point for now; as first he needed to do nothing more than survive the night. Come what may after that, it was only academic if he never made it out of the tomb- like cellar.

  Thump. Thump.

  There were the noises on the ceiling again. Not that he had gotten used to them yet, but at least the muscles in his legs no longer tightened to the point of launching him to his feet. Trembling as he sat there, waiting for the footsteps to pass, he could hear his own heart beat within the confines of his head, echoing, as his trembling finger ran up and down the sloped trigger of the weapon.

  His chest shuddered with each quivering breath as he looked to the darkness for Harry, finding only the silence that cloaked them for a response. Slowly, the footsteps faded into that same silence, and he was able to hear Harry release a long breath that had been cooped up in his chest to grow stale.

  There was a scraping noise now, like small pebbles being dragged across the ground. It was muffled at first, but grew louder with each passing second until it sounded as though those pebbles were dragged into the very room.

  His left hand gripped the oiled pump of the shotgun so tightly that he could feel his bitterly cold, chapped knuckles split painfully as tiny globules of blood formed at the jagged seams. He could sense it all around him, taste it on his dry tongue and smell it in the cavities of his sinuses in his head.

  They were no longer alone in the room.

  At first, he hadn’t heard it, but now, beneath the whistle of the raging wind through the crack around the window, he could definitely tell it was there. It was a rasping wheeze, not unlike that which had comforted him from across the room as it had passed Harry’s lips, but lighter, barely audible.

  Frantically, Scott tried to see anything that stood apart from the darkened room, but there was nothing at all.

  There was a click from the far corner of the room as Harry disengaged the safety on his shotgun, the pump rattling slightly against the steel tube.

  So Harry had heard it as well, or sensed it maybe, at least that verified what Scott thought he knew. Every muscle in his body tensed uncomfortably as he slowly slid up the face of the wall behind him, the crumbling wall giving way to a clattering avalanche of dirt that came to rest in the backs of his shoes.

  Slowly, he raised the shotgun so that he was staring straight down the barrel into the center of the room. Holding his breath, he waited, listening for any sound at all that would give away the location of the presence that was with them in the room.

  There was a loud boom, and the bright yellow flash from the muzzle of the shotgun straight across from him in the darkness, lighting the room like a single strobe. And in that brief fraction of a second, he had seen it: a shape darting across the room and then disappearing back into the suddenly more intense darkness that surrounded them.

  Without hesitation he fired his own weapon, the butt of the gun kicking into his shoulder as the flash of light momentarily blinded him. There was the loud metallic ping as the spray of pellets ripped through the hot water heater, peeling back the metallic cylinder and exposing the hollow tube within. But there was no other sound, no whimpering or screaming as he had expected, or at least hoped, to hear. Nothing but the almost painfully loud silence that swarmed his ear drums.

  With the suddenly heavy shotgun still poised against his shoulder, he stared into the darkness, as every muscle in his body began to tremble almost uncontrollably. There was a quiet click, and then another as Harry replaced the spent shell in the chamber with another that he had pulled from his jacket. Scott had forgotten to do the same, but with his body nearly convulsing through no choice of his own, he feared lowering his muzzle for even a second as that might prove to be just enough time for whatever was down there with them to tear his through clean out.

  He could still hear the breathing echoing lightly in the small cellar, a distinct third addition to their ensemble of hoarse rasping. But it was light as the breeze that swept across the floor, coming from all around them at once, making it so there was no hope of pinning down a location.

  There was another flash and a boom, followed quickly by another, and then another as Harry emptied the contents of his gun into the room. The pellets slammed into the wall to Scott’s left, tearing chunks of the crumbling earth from the wall, exploding them into a cloud of debris that littered the room. Dust swelled all about them, choking their lungs as the air found itself a texture.

  He had seen nothing in the flare from the muzzle that time, nothing but strobe images of the hot water heater he had opened like a can and the large metal box of the furnace. There had been no image streaking through the flash as there had been before.

  There was the clatter of shells falling atop one another as they landed on the floor, rolling across the ground as Harry frantically tried to grab at them. The loud sound of the pump being drawn back quickly echoed through the room as the shells clacked against one another in Harry’s hand as he forced them into the bottom of the gun as quickly as he possibly could.

  Scott advanced towards the center of the room, his shuffling feet barely inching across the dirt floor. His eyes fixed intently on the corner where Harry fumbled with the gun trying to load it more quickly than his frozen fingers could accommodate.

  A muffled gasp issued from that corner, then the choking sounds of a picked throat fighting to gain air. The gun clattered to the ground in the darkness, the muzzle striking first, before the heavy stock finally swung to the ground. With an ear-shattering boom, the gun discharged with the impact from the landing, the cloud of pellets singing past Scott’s ear before slamming into the wall behind him.

  His breaths coming more quickly in pants from his shuddering chest, Scott stepped with more authority through the room, intently fixed on the tip of the barrel as he crossed. Finally, in the midst of the wave of choking sounds, he lowered his barrel, knowing that if he fired the weapon into that corner he would shred Harry like the hot water heater.

  Lowering the gun to the ground, he allowed it to fall from his hands to the earth with a clatter. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he grabbed tightly onto the handle of the thick hunting blade. The jagge
d, tearing edge ripped a line through his jacket as he pulled it out and clenched it tightly in his hand.

  His breaths quickening with a fearful determination, Scott lowered his shoulder and threw his arms out to the sides and charged into the corner with as much speed and ferocity as he could muster. Slamming into something soft, he left his feet, pinning whatever he had run into against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of whoever it was he had hit.

  There was a loud gasp from beneath him as he floundered around, trying to get off of whatever he had ferociously tackled. The body below him slapped at him in a panic, trying to toss him from atop it. Landing on his back, Scott quickly leapt onto all fours, grabbing a hold of whatever he could on the flopping body.

  “Get off!” Harry choked out, fighting to fill his lungs with the dusty, dank air.

  Scott hopped back, whirling back towards the room as he could feel whatever else was in there with them was close. Laying both palms on the floor, he rapidly ran his hands in arcs across the frozen dirt, trying desperately to find the gun he had laid down. The hunting knife was pinned between his open palm and the dirt, scraping loudly across the rock- encrusted surface as he dragged it.

  And then he felt it.

  Something grazed the back of his hand, barely touching the skin but rifling through the hairs that stood on end. It was a cold touch, as though he had raked the back of his hand across a line of icicles. Allowing the knife to stay exactly where he knew that it would be on the floor, he turned over his hands and attempted to feel whatever it was that hung in the air above the ground.

  There were five distinct swellings at the base of whatever the object was. Five frozen, rounded digits, the tips of which were adorned with a sharp, hard coating, rested atop his open palm as his fingers traced the backs of what Scott knew instantly were the callused pads of the bottoms of toes.

  Still cradling the end of the foot in his right hand, he slowly reached with his left for the knife he had laid down only a moment prior, gripping it tightly in his clenched fist. With a loud groan, he raised the blade into the air, driving it straight through the top of the foot. Warm fluids spilled out into his cupped right palm, slipping through the gaps in his fingers, trickling in streams onto the dirt floor.

  His hand slipped from the handle of the awesome weapon as he tried to quickly pull it free in preparation of another rapid strike. The jagged edge had apparently locked onto the array of bones within the center of the foot, lodging itself there.

  There was no sign that he had inflicted even the slightest amount of pain as there wasn’t a howl or a cry, just the wave of blood that cascaded into his hand as the foot finally rose further into the air to where he could no longer feel it. Now, he had absolutely no idea where whatever he had stabbed had gone.

  Flopping back onto his belly, he pawed at the ground, searching violently for the shotgun that he knew had to be somewhere close by. His fumbling fingers traced the frozen earth, searching in vain for the weapon that suddenly felt as though it would never again rest against his shoulder.

  There was a sudden tug on the back of his jacket as he felt himself cleaved off of the floor. His dangling arms and legs flopped helplessly above the cold turf, what little he could grasp peeling back the tips of his fingernails and lodging itself deeply beneath the nail. Something resembling a growl pierced the silence from somewhere just above him as the sudden feeling of weightlessness overwhelmed his senses.

  He flew through the air for what felt like close to a minute before finally slamming shoulders first into the wall of the room, a shattered layer of dirt falling from the wall and into his hair. A bolt of pain rocketed through his shoulder blades as the back of his head snapped back, slamming into the wall before slumping forward atop his limp neck onto his chest. His legs lay flat on the floor, stretched out in front of him across the dirt. Fighting against his eyeballs as they wanted nothing more than to just roll back into his skull and embrace but the momentary darkness of the oblivion that beckoned from the unconscious, he pushed himself from the ground, sliding against the wall to his feet.

  His head lolling slightly on his neck, he peered through the darkness, flashing dots marring his vision, hoping to catch a glimpse of either Harry or whatever it was that had pounded him against the wall.

  There was the thunder of footsteps, racing up the wooden stairs towards the kitchen. Whirling, he caught but the briefest of glances of Harry’s darkened form as it raced diagonally up the wall. The door opened with a bang, slamming backwards into the wall as the footsteps were immediately above his head on the plywood floor.

  Trying to shake off his sluggishness, Scott lumbered towards the stairs, grabbing hold of the railing and using it as a crutch to pull himself up the stairs. The spider webs finally beginning to clear in his jumbled mind, Scott stared around the kitchen, looking for any sign of movement, but there was none.

  There was a sudden whistling sound in the air, like some large object knifing through the air towards him.

  The object slammed into Scott’s chest, knocking him clean off of his feet and into the air once more. He landed squarely on his back, the weight of the heavy object slamming down atop him, forcing the air from his lungs. A sharp pain issued through his back as he tumbled backwards down the stairs and into the cellar once again. His body flopped like a rag doll as he rolled down the stairs, finally slamming onto the small, square cement pad as the bottom, the heavy object again landing squarely on his chest.

  Rolling out from beneath the unmoving lump, Scott wallowed on the earth fighting for even the smallest gasp of air. His eyes rolled to be back of his head, his fingers bent into wicked claws at his sides as he raked at the dirt, clawing for just a single breath.

  Harry moaned from beside him from where he lay in a heap at the base of the stairs. There was no other sign of movement, but at least a moan meant that he was still alive.

  “So you came here to kill me,” a voice said from the darkness, echoing all around them in the small room.

  Finally, choking a gulp of air past his dry trachea, Scott rolled onto his hands and knees, trying to find the strength to stand.

  “I expected better from you, Scott.”

  Finally, stumbling to his feet, Scott looked frantically around the room for the origin of the voice. He knew, as he had recognized from the first syllable uttered, that it was Matt’s voice.

  “I thought that even after all of this time that there was still a connection between us, a bond that we’ve shared since long ago. But I guess I was wrong. I guess there’s nothing left for us to share but this brief moment.”

  A dim pinpoint of light appeared directly overhead in the center of the basement, the small ball swelling larger and larger until it finally took on the pear shaped form of the old light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The M- shaped tungsten filament snapped and popped as it glowed bright yellow, filling the dust coated globe.

  While it was barely enough light to see his swaggering shadow on the floor, it was more than enough to allow him to see the shadow of the enormous form that floated in the air nearly directly in front of him. Stabilizing himself, he fought with his aching chest, trying to summon a few words of rebuttal, but nothing would come.

  He watched as the immense outline of the form glided over the earthen floor beneath the light, finally coming to rest right in front of him. He could feel Matt’s warm, damp breath on his face, could nearly taste the carrion that festered between his yellowed teeth. Staring into the darkened face, he could see nothing but blackness. Clenching his fists at his side, he waited for his opportunity.

  “There’s something you need to know,” Matt whispered, his rasping voice still seeming to come from all around the room.

  Scott just stared blankly into the black pits where the eyes should have been.

  “Shane cried like a little girl before I snapped his neck, begging through the tears for his life.”

  His lips tightening against his teeth, Scott raised his right
fist and swung, striking Matt right in the center of the face. And before he even knew what he was doing, his left followed, slamming just to the other side of where the last blow had landed. Then his right rose again and then his left. Again and again his swung, the soft tissue of Matt’s face feeling like nothing more than a side of beef as he hammered at it, the skin splitting wide as blood raced to the surface.

  “Stop it!” Matt cried in a voice that sounded as though it was ten years younger, like the voice of a teenager.

  Scott staggered backwards, allowing his tightened fists to fall to his side, blood dripping from his knuckles onto the ground. His mouth dropped as he stared towards the face once again; this time the shadows peeled back to allow him to view the bludgeoned face.

  It looked nothing like he had seen it look over the course of the last several days, the yellowed, decomposing flesh on the face appeared flush with color. The eyes, which had been little more than dried orbs, cracking and blistering had been replaced by softer, whiter eyes that seemed to glimmer beneath the dim light with a coating of tears. The cracked blue lips were now fuller, engorged with blood as they fleshed out. To either side of the bloodied, broken nose, blood ran in streams down the pink cheeks.

  His right ankle rolling as he stepped atop a rock, Matt fell to the ground, landing on his rear end. Still moving backward, he dragged himself across the dirt, his eyes unable to look away from the face that hovered above him. His back met with the wall as he still fought to drag himself further but to no avail.

  “Matt,” he gasped, the cloud of dust he had stirred clinging to his darkened lips.

  “Please, Scott,” he sputtered through the blood in his mouth, still in the voice of a child. “Please help me.”

  Scott just shook his head, unable to vocalize the sudden swarm of thoughts that raced through his barely comprehending brain.