by Anthony Izzo
Chris Peters was on his back in the bathroom. Like Perez, blood had spread out on the floor underneath him. He stared up at the ceiling. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood.
The bastard killed a kid. “Fucker.”
She had business with him in the bedroom. The room was all shadows. He could be waiting to spring. The question was: Did they wait for backup to arrive and keep him hemmed in, or go in after him?
Martz knelt by the kid and felt for a pulse on his neck. “It’s weak, but it’s there.”
Maria squinted, trying to look into the darkness. She heard glass smash and stormed into the bedroom. The intruder leapt out the window.
She looked down to see a chair lying in the yard. The man darted across the yard, coat flapping behind him. She took aim and squeezed off two shots, hit him dead center of the back. He kept going, staggering as he went.
Maria heard the sirens coming, an ambulance and backup officers on the way. She had an earpiece in and a mic on her jacket. “Suspect’s fleeing the yard at one-three-six Bloomfield. Heading east toward Parker Avenue.”
She took off down the stairs. “Stay with them,” she yelled back to Martz.
Once again, she hopped the dead cop’s body. This time, she ran for her unmarked and got in. She backed out of the driveway and headed toward Parker Avenue, the street adjacent to the one she was on.
She cruised along, watching for the man. There. Up ahead. The unmistakable trench coat. He ran towards the end of the block. Beyond that was some woods and then the creek bed that would eventually lead to a sewer drain. She had to be quick.
She accelerated, gunning the engine.
She zeroed in on him; shooting him again would be useless. The bumper caught him and he rolled up on the hood. Hit the windshield and it shattered. She swerved right and sideswiped a parked minivan.
Maria stopped the car and hopped out.
The man was sprawled on the ground, flat on his belly. He didn’t appear to be breathing, but that didn’t mean much. He’d taken multiple gunshots and it hadn’t slowed him down. She didn’t know if he was alive to begin with.
She approached him, the Glock trained on him.
It was no surprise when he got to his hands and knees. Jesus, what was it going to take to kill this guy? He got to his feet and picked the knife up off the ground. He staggered toward Maria, quicker that she would’ve liked.
She fired. Didn’t slow him. He tried to drive the knife into her chest. It dug into the vest, but didn’t penetrate. She pointed the barrel of the Glock under his chin; she pulled the trigger. Something rotten and black exploded out of the top of his skull. He slumped forward against her, the stink of him making her gag.
She backed up and let him fall to the ground.
Maria watched him. She radioed in her location. This time, he didn’t stir. After a few minutes, two patrol cars came screaming onto the scene.
Chris’ funeral had been the worst day of her life. That had been a week ago, and her eyes were still raw from crying. Now, she was sitting on her bed and listening to Metallica’s “Fade to Black.” Chris had loved that song, and listening to it was like rubbing lemon juice in a cut.
Dad popped in her doorway. He was between meetings. He was leaving for Dallas in the morning. “How you doing?”
She took her earbuds out. “Lousy.”
“First loves are tough to lose.”
“Really?”
“What?” he said.
“We didn’t break up dad, he’s dead. You were at the funeral.”
“Just saying, it’s awful, but there’ll be other guys.”
“You really kinda suck at this,” she said.
“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your father.”
Hope said, “You don’t act like one. Don’t you have a flight to get ready for?”
“I’m just trying to help and you’re being pissy,” he said.
“I’m fine. Please go.”
“Let’s talk,” he said.
“Don’t want to. Thanks.”
“I’m here if you need me,” he said.
“I’ll just lock the house up, don’t worry.”
He shook his head as he walked away. “I just don’t get you sometimes.”
She cranked the music louder.
Even though the killer was dead, she didn’t feel that great about being alone in the house. It still felt creepy. They never found those two missing boys, or the rest of the jogger that had been killed. She’d definitely be sleeping on the couch with the television on while her father was gone.
Maybe she’d keep a knife nearby, just in case.
It was officially one week to go before school started. Dad was on his flight to Dallas and Hope was washing the egg-crusted plate he’d left behind.
The doorbell rang. She grabbed a dish towel and dried her hands. Went to the front door and saw the detectives standing on the porch. She’d had enough of answering questions; she’d gone over the attack at Chris’ house tons of times.
Hope opened the door. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Good to see you Hope,” Detective Greco said.
“Can we come in?” Martz said. She had a sutured scar on her wrist that would look at home on Frankenstein’s monster.
“More questions?”
“You’re off the hot seat, I promise,” Greco said.
“Cool. C’mon in.”
“Is your mom or dad home?” Martz said.
“I just have dad. He’s in the air somewhere over the southwest,” Hope said.
“When’s he coming home?” Greco said.
“He’s gone for three days.”
“He leave you alone a lot?” Martz said.
“I watch a lot of Netflix,” Hope said. “I have to do the dishes. What did you need to tell me?”
The detectives exchanged a look. They both looked nervous. Not a look you wanted to see from cops.
“What is it?” Hope said.
“The man who killed Chris – some people are calling him The Walking Man – his body disappeared from the morgue,” Greco said.
“So? Some sicko probably took it.”
“Normally I would think what I’m about to say is crazy, but I think he left on his own power,” Greco said.
“Do you believe that, Detective Martz?” Hope said.
“I put multiple rounds in him. So did Detective Greco. Didn’t hurt him. That wasn’t natural,” Martz said.
“There were murders back in 1968. I talked to one of the detective’s kids. His father, Rogowski, passed away in 2014, but he went to his grave swearing he saw evidence of a corpse walking out of the morgue.”
It didn’t seem so crazy. In fact, it was sending a chill through her. “That’s kinda creepy.”
“It might be nothing, but there was a mark on your house. Ours too,” Greco said.
“Do you have family that can stay with you for a few days?”
“Just my dad,” Hope said.
“You want company?” Greco said.
“I don’t really want to stay alone.”
“I’ll come keep an eye on the place until your dad gets home if that’s okay. I can talk to your father about it. Keep you safe,” Maria said.
“You’d do that?”
“Sure. Just until this blows over.”
As the sun began to set, Hope went around and double-checked the locks. The house gave an assortment of creaks and groans, making her jump each time.
She was relieved to see the unmarked police car pull up the driveway. It stopped and Detective Greco got out. She was wearing jeans and a lightweight jacket. Tall boots. The weather had taken a turn, the cool fall air moving in. Hope had on a hoodie and lounge pants with little skulls on them.
She opened the door.
“I’ll park out here in the driveway, sit in the car.”
“You could come in. I don’t mind,” Hope said.
“I could do that.”
“Do you really think he�
�s out there?” Hope said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But we should be cautious.”
“If he comes back, can you kill him?”
“I think so. Fire might be the key. Rogowski’s grandson said the man they think is the Walking Man died from fire. It’s worth a shot. Nothing else worked, so far.”
Hope said, “So you got a flamethrower in your trunk?”
“I got a blowtorch.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Greco said. “But hopefully we won’t see his ugly ass.”
Hope sat up on the couch, woken up by a crash from outside. Detective Greco was on her feet, gun drawn. The television was on the Netflix home screen. She’d dozed off watching Family Guy.
“What’s going on?” Hope said.
“There’s someone out by the garage. I saw him go in there,” Greco said.
“What do we do?”
“We don’t do anything. I’m going out there.”
Hope saw the yellow canister with the angled nozzle coming out of it. The detective really had bought a blowtorch. Next to the blowtorch was a small bottle of kerosene. “You really are going to light him on fire.”
“That’s the plan. Best get him while he’s outside.”
“Aren’t you going to call for help?”
“And tell them a dead man is coming after us?” Greco said.
“Aren’t they paying you to be here? They must know you’re here.”
She shook her head. “Here on my own time. Keep that door locked. I’m going after him.”
Maria approached the garage. There was a man door next to the four bay doors. It was cracked open. She had the blow torch in one hand and the bottle of kerosene in the other. The Glock was holstered; it was pretty much useless if their guy was in the garage.
She stepped inside and flipped on the lights. Two of the garage bays were empty. In the other two were parked a Mercedes convertible and a black Hummer. A rich man’s toys, she thought. Never buy one of those on a detective’s salary.
Against the back wall was a work bench. Peg board on the wall with all manner of tools hung on it.
She went deeper into the garage, scanning, looking for any signs of him. Nothing.
“Where the hell are you?”
Hope watched out the window from the game room, where a full-size Brunswick pool table dominated the room. The other side was taken up by a bar. Over the bar was an unlit neon sign that Dad had custom-made. It said: Ray’s Place. She always thought it a little absurd.
She could see the garage from here. Detective Greco had turned the lights on. It was quiet. No signs of a struggle.
She watched for another moment. Then she saw him coming around the back of the garage. He was heading for the door. The detective might not see him. From here, she could see the knife in his hand.
Hope ran for the back door, threw the deadbolt, and ran for the garage.
Maria felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Someone was watching her. As she turned, she saw him come through the door. He barreled into her and she dropped the torch. She staggered backward and he landed on top of her. The kerosene tumbled to the floor, as well.
She struggled, tried to throw a punch. He slashed her shoulder with the knife and she yelled. Got her arm up to try and defend herself. His icy hand went to her throat and squeezed.
He didn’t make a noise. The grip grew tighter.
The knife blade moved toward her face.
Hope got through the door and found the undead man straddling the detective. She scanned the garage and spotted a sledge hammer leaning against the wall. She grabbed it.
The man hadn’t taken notice of her yet. She hoisted the sledgehammer, keeping her balance. Muscles straining, she swung it and cracked him in the side of the skull. It was enough to knock him off balance and Detective Greco scurried out from under him.
Hope set down the hammer and spotted the kerosene. She scooped it up. The man was getting to his feet. She flipped the lid on the bottle and squirted it, dousing him. She got a good amount on his clothes and face.
He swung the knife and she reared back. It narrowly missed her face. She backed up in the direction of the workbench.
The man patted his chest, realizing he’d been soaked.
Detective Greco grabbed the torch. She turned a knob on the top of it, clicked something on the nozzle attachment, and a blue flame hissed to life.
The man turned, facing the detective.
Greco lunged, holding the flame against the man’s coat. The coat lit up. Flames danced up his chest. He spun around, beating at the flames. Dropped the knife. She hit him with the torch a second time.
The rest of his clothes began to catch and he clawed at himself. He sank to his knees, and an agonized, strangled groan escaped his lips. It sounded like a dying animal to Hope.
The flames danced up his face. The rest of his clothes started to catch.
“Hope. C’mon.”
The Detective reached out her hand and Hope took it. The two of them ran around the engulfed Walking Man and headed out of the garage.
From behind them came more tortured groans.
“He didn’t try and run away,” Hope said.
“Maybe in some way he wanted it to end.”
Smoke boiled out of the door, bringing with it an awful stench. Hope covered her mouth and nose with her hand. It didn’t help.
After a few moments, Greco said, “I’m going to see if it worked.”
“I want to look, too.”
“Why?”
“To make sure he’s dead.
“Stay behind me,” Greco said.
She drew her gun. Hope followed her inside. Smoke hung in the air and the smell was so bad she could taste it.
The charred remains of the Walking Man lay on the floor. The skin black, the yellowed teeth visible where the lips had burned away. He was still.
“I don’t think he’s coming back from that,” Greco said.
“I hope not. I want to go back outside.”
“Go ahead. I’m going to call this in.”
The following day, Maria was summoned to the chief’s office. He sat at his desk, a shelf behind him loaded with trophies from fishing tournaments. He steepled his fingers, peered at her. “Have a seat.”
She took the chair in front of the desk. “Is this where I give you my badge and gun?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Let me guess. Local detective slays zombie killer? Is that how we’re playing this?”
The chief leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “You encountered an unknown intruder in the garage. Said unknown intruder doused himself in a flammable substance and lit himself on fire before you could arrest them. He was obviously mentally unstable.”
“Sounds like a solid story.”
“It’s better than the one you told me. We start saying that a guy got up and walked out of the morgue, we’ll all be working mall security by week’s end. Got it. That was a good thing you did.”
“Killing the undead?” she said.
“Protecting the girl. As a bonus, her very wealthy father is making a sizeable donation to the department.”
“You can get a bigger shelf for your trophies,” Maria said.
“Or maybe hire a new detective. Dismissed,” he said, smiling.
As she got up to leave, he said, “Nice work, Greco. I hope like hell this is over.”
“Me too Chief. Me too.”
Anthony Izzo is the author of 17 thrillers, among them The Dead Land Trilogy and The Damage Factory. He enjoys writing tales of mayhem involving anything from zombies to psycho killers to murderous shapeshifters. Anthony has also served as a judge for the Buffalo Dreams Film Festival screenplay competition. He recently had a story appear in the military sci-fi anthology “SNAFU: Future Warfare.” Anthony holds a B.A. in English from D’Youville College in Buffalo, NY. When not writing, he likes playing loud guitar, drawing, and spending time with family. He makes his home in the W
estern New York Area.
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Read an excerpt from Anthony Izzo’s upcoming horror novel, Enter the Night:
One
Truth be told, the mountain gives Bob Grey the creeps.
He steers the cube truck up the winding road. Hits the wipers. Snow begins to pelt the windshield. There’s a blizzard coming down from the Canadian Rockies that will hit later next week.
“Getting icy,” he says into the Bluetooth headset.
“Take her easy,” Gary Meyers says. Gary is in the Dodge Ram behind Bob’s truck.
“What’s the name of this show again?” Bob says.
“Enter the Night,” Gary says.
“How about let’s get the fuck off this mountain? I’ll star in that show,” Bob says, and Gary meets this with braying laughter.
He steers the truck around a switchback and continues up the mountain. Takes a swig of coffee from his travel mug. It’s now lukewarm and bitter, but it’s better than nothing. “Why would anyone want to film a reality show up here?”
Gary says, “Couldn’t be Hawaii or South Beach, could it?”
“Honeys in bikinis and drinking on the beach. That’d be more like it.”
They’d passed the abandoned military base at the foot of the mountain, where rusted tanks and trucks sat abandoned behind chain link fence. Bob is glad they don’t have to drive up to the abandoned hospital near the top of the mountain. He’s grateful to be stopping midway at the lodge.
“Lodge should be coming up,” Gary says.
Bob spots the rustic sign in his headlights. It reads: Iron Mountain Lodge. He brakes and turns onto the road that goes to the lodge.