Deep and Dark December

by Paul Cave

  DEEP AND DARK DECEMBER

  PAUL CAVE

  Books by Paul Cave:

  Cold Light of Day

  Dead Until Dawn

  Something of the Night

  For Everything a Reason

  The Keep

  The Horror Collection

  www.paulcavebooks.com

  Copyright © 2021 Paul Cave

  The right of Paul Cave to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design by Kudi Design

  Images sourced by Shutterstock.com

  Deep and Dark December

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter One

  The wipers had an almost hypnotic motion about them. Twin blades swept across the Ford Maverick’s windshield with a dull, melodic dubstep, pushing the heavy droplets of rain from one side to the other, giving the driver a clearer view of the road ahead.

  Not much to see, really.

  Trees, either side, formed a tight channel, and the road, darkened by the rapidly falling twilight, steered the Maverick onwards in a straight, unwavering path.

  Jake Rivers checked the fuel gauge. The needle was just about to tip into the red. He groaned dismally. The road beyond seemed to stretch on for all eternity.

  A sudden thought entered his head – a video, on that new music channel – MTV - had displayed something similar. A kaleidoscope. Shapes within shapes, stretching out, echoing beyond what the natural human eye could see, seemingly never-ending and almost unfathomable to comprehend.

  A pain brought Rivers back to the now.

  A hot searing agony was working its way at his side.

  Rivers took his eyes off the road for a moment. His t-shirt was a sodden mess. Red and torn. Blood continued to ooze from the wound at his side.

  He shifted in his seat, an attempt to ease the pain. It worked. The bite of the wound lessened slightly, unseen teeth retracting to give the object a moment’s pause.

  Rivers assessed the damage. Nothing too severe. A flesh wound. The bullet had taken a chunk out of his side, but mercifully missed anything of real importance.

  He grunted in sour amusement. For all he cared, the bullet could have hit him smack-bang in the middle of his forehead, and still, there would have been little in the name of significant damage.

  Stupid motherfucker was what he thought.

  He hissed in a combination of pain and self-admonishment.

  Why had he allowed himself to get talked into this – a fool’s plan at best?

  Just 48 hours ago he had been living a modest but comfortable lifestyle. He had not wanted to set the world alight with his success, but simply fit in, and get by relatively unhindered. He had already seen the worst the world had to offer, at a young age, and now was only looking to enjoy the simple things in life – a warm meal, an apartment he could call his own, employment, contentment and self-worth - were the things Jake Rivers valued. A simple man, living a simple life.

  Yet, here he was, a fugitive of the law, with the blood of another on his hands.

  Rivers slowed the Ford slightly, an unconscious act, as his mind replayed the images of earlier.

  Those eyes.

  Clear, unwavering, unreachable.

  Rivers could see every detail in those eyes. Black almost, like the eyes of a shark. But burning with a dark intelligence. Unblinking. Focused was not the word. Not by a long shot. Those eyes had been programmed, in coldest binary, 1 and 0s, given to the fact that an action could be quantified with a simple yes or no. Right or wrong.

  A sudden burst of lightning, way off in the distance, brought Rivers back to the fore.

  The crack of thunder followed. Then a deep rumbling of noise seemed to draw towards him, as the fingers of light stretched out along the darkening sky.

  Rivers watched as the lightning cut across the sky. He had not seen such an aggressive display of nature before, and it was his immediate thoughts that perhaps it was in response to the violence that he had left behind him. Was a higher purpose offering him an acknowledgment of intent? Had his immediate escape already been judged and deemed unworthy of success?

  He checked the fuel gauge again. The needle was fully committed to the red.

  Rivers pulled a map from the passenger’s seat. He spread it out, half unfolded, across the steering wheel, and carefully examined it.

  This road snaked along the map in a twisting of red, trees were marked as green, dotted along either side, and nothing appeared to break this suggestion until a small gathering of icons broke the assemblage with a name – a town, Hope Springs.

  Rivers liked the sound of that.

  Hope Springs seem like the perfect place to be right now.

  He dropped the map at his side. This sudden act of movement triggered a bout of intense pain. The agony returned with unbridled malice, invisible teeth tearing into flesh, and more blood blossomed across his t-shirt as the wound reopened like a macabre mouth in a tiny, silent scream.

  Rivers gritted his teeth against the pain. He pushed his fingers against the wound. Fingertips broke into flesh almost too deeply, which sent a bout of nausea rushing towards the back of his throat.

  He felt hot bile. He gulped, forcing the acidic sensation down, deep into the pit of his stomach. There, it churned about with a deeper agony, sloshing within his gut, threatening to ignite something far more volatile than remorse or guilt alone.

  The trees on either side began to thin, gaps appearing as darkest shadows, and the woodlands retracted like souls reclaimed, shapes, shifters, and spirits recalled t
o the heavens above, offering a clear path to redemption, in the name, possibly, of Hope Springs.

  Rivers glanced through the rear-view mirror. He caught his own reflection – bleary-eyed and hollow.

  Had he lost too much blood?

  No, he did not think so.

  He was in shock; the bullet wound and the ramifications of his actions, back in the town he had left behind, were both conspiring against his physical and spiritual being.

  A few more miles, and he would be able to hold up, assess his situation, address his predicament, and plan his next move.

  Jake Rivers took a deep breath. He tilted the mirror before him, angling it towards the rear of the Ford. In the back seat, a lifeless body filled the glass.

  “Hold on, brother,” Rivers said.

  The lifeless body in the back gave no indication of agreement. Indeed, it gave no hint that it would do such a thing, ‘holding on’, was not in its immediate thoughts, nor did it seem to warrant such an optimistic recourse, as a bullet wound that had grazed its skull seemingly leaked the fluid that harboured such thoughts.

  Rivers hit the gas, willing the truck to scrape back those last few miles that remained, hoping beyond hope that there he would somehow, unbelievingly, find the solace that he was so desperately seeking.

  Chapter Two

  The night sky had drawn in with such rapidity that Deputy Kelly Anderson believed a higher power had simply thrown a switch.

  On, off, good night.

  Daylight was now a fading memory, one which would not again be present until the realisation that darkness was not eternal, and indeed, the sun would eventually return to push back the fears and anxieties that night brought in its wake.

  Deputy Anderson readjusted her utility belt. It felt overly heavy as it pressed into her hips. She twisted the belt until the unwanted pressure lessened. However, the revolver at her side dug sharply into her thigh.

  She stepped over broken glass as best she could, her boots crunching down on a few shards that had been dispersed beyond the main body of debris.

  A window had allowed her entrance. Smashed inwards and a simple short drop to the area inside.

  As if to reiterate the fact that a crime had been committed, the stench of discharged firearms – a sulfuric reek that clung to the nostrils and throat – still hung in the air.

  She clicked her flashlight on, and the darkness retracted instantly.

  Bodies lay hanging at the rear of the abandoned warehouse. Her free hand wavered near the holster at her hip. Pointless, she understood, as the perpetrator or perpetrators of such a crime would be long gone. She stepped closer, the light in her hand giving her all the detail she required.

  Rats hung still, their tails extended by thick twine, that had been tied into crude knots around the pipes above.

  Target practice.

  Kids.

  The place was known to be a local haunt for the teenagers of this town. A den of sorts. Once or twice, she had been called out to this place – noise from music cassette tapes blaring, or the hoot and holler of overeager kids, feeling the need to express themselves with shouts and screams.

  Beer bottles, empty packets of potato chips, and the occasional used condom were strewn about the place. Most of the windows were boarded up, but one or two still maintained a pane of glass.

  The deputy played the light over the sad submissions that hung rigidly in place. A few tufts of matted fur had been blasted away, small calibre gunshot wounds, that peppered the rats here and there. More small holes had been chipped into the wall beyond.

  The deputy took one last look at the dead rats. Decided that she had seen enough. She would call it in. She retraced her steps back to the broken window.

  She killed the flashlight and returned it to her utility belt. Reaching up, she pulled herself clear of the warehouse, leaving the macabre findings to languish in darkness.

  Her police vehicle was literally a square box on four wheels. Large, with a V8 engine, and two-toned in colour. Black and white with a gold crest on each door to signify the local enforcement’s decals – Sheriff’s Office Douglas County.

  The State Cruiser had red and blues flashing on its roof, and the lights threw dancing apparitions across the exterior of the warehouse. A few splashes of colour could be found too, names and tag signs, written in over exaggerated lettering, bold and bright, and from the nozzle of an aerosol can.

  The deputy recognised some of these tags, she had seen them dotted about around town, or stencilled randomly across the walls of abandoned buildings that were found along the main stretch of highway.

  Anderson reached inside the Cruiser to hit a switch. The lights died instantly and the devilish ghouls that played across the brickwork vanished without a trace.

  She leaned across the dashboard and took the handset to the two-way radio and hit the ON switch. A pitch of noise filled the air. She pressed TRANSMIT and spoke into the handset.

  “Dispatch – you copy? Over.”

  She released the button and more static interference squawked in an unfathomable language.

  “Dispatch – you copy? Over,” she repeated.

  Only alien chatter filled the airwaves.

  She dropped the handset back into place. Looked out, across town and towards the distant horizon.

  Only one hundred miles separated this town and the Canadian border. A simple trek northward, two hours’ drive – an hour if you were desperate – at most, and you’d be entering into new sovereignty. Out of the country’s jurisdiction. A free man. Or woman.

  She laughed then, understanding that the murder of rats would not warrant such a daring escape. No last-minute dash for the border. Nor fake passports required to help enter a foreign country.

  Just kids.

  But kids with firearms no less.

  She could not just leave it at that.

  A flash of lightning lit up the sky spectacularly miles off in the distance. She watched as the forks of charged energy crisscrossed their way along the darkened sky, before disappearing into black clouds. Too far northward, she did not hear the resultant thunder that must have followed.

  The deputy brought the local map to mind. Where would the kids have gone next? Most of the young gangs in town had taken to riding around on BMX bikes. She had seen them cycling up and down the highways, looking for mischief no doubt.

  Another shock of lightning ripped across the sky, silently, as if in muted agreement. North was the direction she believed the rat killing fugitives would have taken. Along Highway 52.

  Deputy Anderson unbuckled her utility belt and dropped it into the passenger seat. She climbed inside the state cruiser. She brought the engine to life, and then turned the headlights on. She half reached out, her intentions on retrying the two-way radio. Call for back-up? Offer her immediate actions to her supervisor?

  No.

  Not for a few dead rats.

  She dropped her hand away and instead decided to let things lie. The deputies back at the station would take great pleasure in their ridicule of her need for backup. Kids with popguns they would mock.

  She pulled away from the scene, at a crawl initially, her subconscious sense of uncertainty holding her back momentarily, before her steely resolve took over, and she took to the highway at a pace that was more in rhythm with her speeding heartbeat.

  Chapter Three

  Ben Ronald yawned deeply, his mouth opening wide in a cavernous roar of tiredness. He jabbed calloused fingertips into his eyes to ease the mounting pressure that had begun to build there. It helped a little. The fatigue seemed to diminish slightly, scurrying away like a dark wave of ants, to nestle somewhere deep within the back of his skull.

  He pulled the baseball cap from his head – NY Giants, obviously, him being a native New Yorker, and used the hat to fan his face.

  The small amount of comfort this gave was a welcome relief to the heat found inside the cab. He sat the hat back onto his head, covering his thinning crown of hair as he did
so.

  A small mutt was sat in the chair opposite, its furry chin resting on front paws. Ben’s actions had rousted the mutt from its slumber.

  “Hey boy,” Ben acknowledged, seeing the dog had awakened.

  The mutt sniffed around the cabin. Found nothing out of the ordinary, so returned to his restful position, curled up in the passenger seat.

  Ben took one hand off the rig’s steering wheel and used it to pat the mutt’s head gently.

  “Easy there, Cal,” he said, with a pat of affection.

  The dog offered him a brief wag of his tail. Then buried his chin into his paws.

  The rain, now a constant downfall, continued its assault on the outside world. Inside the eighteen-wheeler, both man and dog continued unaffected by this torrent of cascading water.

  Ben peered through the windshield. The rig’s large wipers were doing a grand job of keeping the glass surface clear. Trees were lined up, tightly packed side by side, on both sides of the highway, and the rig was navigating its way through the darkness with ease.

  Twin headlamps burnt two holes of bright light ahead, seemingly pulling the rig straight, as if the lights themselves had the same singular bearing as that of rail tracks.

  The road started to climb slightly, nothing too severe, but enough to force the rig to drop a gear and reduce its speed.

  Ben watched the headlamps cut towards the crest of this small hill.

  Something caught his attention.

  Something large and unusual.

  A bear.

  A fucking goddam Brown Bear.

  And massive too. A male.

  The bear had taken up residence in the centre of the highway. Its huge body looked drenched – brown fur matted and slick-looking as it became caught in the rig’s bright lights.

  This sudden and unexpected arrival – the rig appearing from out of darkness – triggered something within the beast.

  The animal reared up to its full height, almost nine feet of teeth and claws, and 1000 pounds in weight. Its jaws opened, and a roar of fury bellowed out.