Deep and Dark December

by Paul Cave

  The crack in his skull looked hideous now that the rain had washed it clean. A clear gorge of flesh had been cut along the side of his head, and the white of his skull glinted like porcelain underneath. Bone had split too, a distinctive line of something grey pushing to get out.

  Meadows just stood there, head cocked sideways, and mortal wound tipped to the sky.

  Rivers shuddered. Nothing about his bearing seemed natural. That hideous bulbous eye appeared as if it could pop from his skull at any moment. The haemorrhage within Meadows’ skull could be building with pressure and ready to burst out in a great torrent of red liquid.

  “What the fuck is he doing?” Anderson asked.

  Rivers could not find his voice.

  His friend had been mortally wounded back at the bank. He could admit that to himself. His wounds were too severe to have had any real hope of recovery. Only Rivers’ blindness to this fact, his unwillingness to admit his friend’s time had almost come to an end, had rendered him a fool.

  Indeed, it had been Rivers who had dragged him to the getaway car. Meadows had managed to escape the bank – but it was Rivers’ understanding that a simple burst of adrenaline had made that so. Like the final moments of a cat or dog, able to drag itself to the roadside, once being hit by a passing car.

  A final burst of energy – allowing the injured one last glance at life.

  Yet, here he stood. Broken but alive. Somehow Meadows had tricked time and mortality into looking elsewhere.

  Rivers and the deputy were stood with the counter at their backs. Ben had taken Cal into one of the rear rooms, in the hope that the mutt would remain silent. The last thing they needed was a crazy man trying to gain entry, interests triggered by the barking of a dog.

  “Where did he come from?” Anderson asked.

  Rivers held his tongue. Understood that to offer any explanation would render him cold and callous.

  Why had he allowed his friend to languish in the Ford so severely injured, she would need to know.

  “One of the rooms?” he proposed.

  The deputy seemed to buy this. “Yeah,” she said simply.

  They were both standing in darkness, only the lights from the overhang were on, and they captured the shadowy form in darkest clarity.

  The deputy moved away from the counter. Rivers tried to stop her, but she had already stepped out of his range. He silently cursed his own bad luck and then joined her, a few feet from the window.

  “Why is he just staring at it?” she asked.

  Rivers could not explain.

  Meadows had not taken his attention away from the sign. The one that they had taped to the window. He just stood rigid, the rain and wind battering him, and that singular eye transfixed to the simple message written there.

  Rivers looked beyond the man and focused instead on the Ford. The rear door had been forced open, and the blanket that he had used to comfort his friend was a soggy mess, loosely gathered in the mud outside.

  His imagination went into overdrive. Maggie dragging the injured army veteran from the vehicle, her blade poised to strike, only for her demented mind to register something familiar.

  Or maybe Meadows had awoken from his slumber, his damaged brain floundering to grant him freedom. Hooked fingers finding the door mechanism, and then pulling it open for the ex-serviceman to flop feebly onto the rain-soaked ground.

  Both scenarios flashed across his mind – each just as worrying as the other.

  Meadows moved. A single jerk. His head twisted to the side. Eye fixed to the front of the motel. He stood that way for the longest of seconds. Rain dripping heavily against his skull. His hair was plastered flat against his pallid skin. Meadows looked like a ghoul – face gaunt and ravaged by disease. The t-shirt he wore had stuck to his skin, and the outline of his ribs could be clearly seen.

  His head spun back to the sign. In a sudden and unexpected motion, he bent at the waist as his hand fished about for something near his boot area. The glint of metal flashed as his hand reappeared with fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a switchblade.

  Rivers felt his gut dip with fear. His friend turned on unsteady feet and headed towards the motel. Something about Meadows’ gait reminded Rivers of a movie he had seen recently.

  West World had played on TV with Yul Brynner as the main protagonist, The Gunslinger. An android that had gone haywire, killing innocent vacationers in the guise of a villainous cowboy.

  Now, Meadows had adopted that role, as he crossed the open area, the knife held out before him.

  Realisation hit Rivers a second later.

  Meadows was heading for room #6.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The ghostly figure turned away from the diner. Took a few mechanical steps towards the motel, its footprints filling with rainwater instantly, as it tracked a path towards the stationary VW.

  Deputy Anderson felt her blood chill. She understood then. The sign. The thing had been working out the ramifications of those few simple words. She cursed her own stupidity. She had added the number.

  She watched in horror as the figure reached the first step – just two leading towards the doorway to #6. It wavered for a second, the effort to negotiate the steps slowing it somewhat.

  Anderson bolted into action.

  She was at the entrance within two long strides. Rivers was saying something – a warning – but her mind did not have time to fully register it. In the next second, she was outside – the rain deafening as it battered the overhang.

  The figure had climbed the steps now and was directly outside the motel room. She watched its hand rap twice against the door. The knife used to tap against wood. She did not hear the hollow knocking – the rain had turned the world about her into a constant hiss of contempt.

  A light clicked on from within.

  She was screaming. Begging them not to answer. Yet the rain drowned out her pleas, and they went unheard.

  The door opened.

  A young man – in his early-twenties – stood with a sleepy and confused look on his face. That look turned to one of shock.

  Anderson drew her weapon. Too late. The young man had already dropped to his knees. Blood cascaded down the front of his bare chest, his neck slit from ear to ear.

  A scream came. From within the room itself. Terror so loud that it managed to pierce the hiss of the rain. A woman’s cry for help.

  The deputy took aim. Fired a shot directly at the figure. It missed by a yard. The distance too great to be accurate. She stepped forwards; the short barrel of her gun dangerously close to the torrent that fell. Another shot missed its target, but not by much this time.

  Anderson was in the moment – real lives were being threatened. She started to take an unconscious step forwards, her boots catching the first drips of rainwater, when a powerful grip stopped her short.

  “No,” Rivers was telling her. “It’s too dangerous.”

  The deputy tried to shake herself loose. “Let me go!” she demanded.

  Rivers just tightened his grip.

  “It’s too late. For them. Look.”

  Anderson turned her attention to the motel. The ghostly figure was filling the doorway but facing outwards this time. The screams from within had been quickly silenced.

  The shadow broke away from the doorway, to take a few awkward steps around the body of the young man. It stopped at the top of the steps.

  Rivers dragged the deputy to the ground, taking refuge behind one of the gas pumps.

  The deputy could see that Rivers had his eyes on the thing. One finger was across his lips, a signal of silence, and his other hand pressed heavily against her chest.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  Anderson tried to push him off.

  Rivers pushed harder.

  He shot her a glance of clear intent. “Quiet,” he hissed. “It’s coming this way.”

  She read the fear in his eyes, and subsequently gave in to his attempts at holding her back. Now, Anderson
pushed herself backwards, allowing Rivers to squeeze in closer beside her.

  She could not hear the thing coming, nor see it from her compromised position, as the rain and wind were doing their best to mask its footsteps. Instead, she relied on Rivers’ expression to guide her through the encounter.

  Rivers stared wide-eyed. Fear was still present, but also something akin to amazement. He was clearly in the mind of wonder, and his face had taken on an almost childlike look of astonished disbelief.

  Strange, she thought. Had they not seen such terrifying oddities already?

  Then a voice came from the rain. Broken and rasping, and barely perceptible over the noise of the downwash.

  Just one word was spoken.

  A name.

  “R i v e r s . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The small office room could not hold Ben’s interest any longer. He had done his best to keep his mind occupied, and Cal’s also, but the fears that he felt were just too great for him to ignore.

  He felt trapped. In here. Blind to what was happening in the main diner.

  For the umpteenth time, he looked at the calendar pinned to the wall. A naked girl, December ’81, had her back to him, her ample buttocks filling up most of the picture. She had a large cake in her hands, and a smudge of white cream had ‘somehow’ found itself smeared across her bare behind.

  Ordinarily, Ben may have found himself more engaged with the finer points of the photographer’s product placement and thinking, but not today. Not now.

  More so, he could not stop looking at the date circled underneath the main photo. Today’s date. None of the preceding dates had a circle around them – just this one.

  Ben felt invisible spiders scurrying up his spine. What was the significance of today? Apart from the damned obvious, that was. Had the cook unwittingly, subconsciously, circled the date that marked his last?

  He reached out, and cautiously turned back a page to reveal the past month. November ’81 was a different girl, chocolate finger in her hand, one end tipped towards her open mouth, in a suggestive manner, and two dark smears of brown running across her cheeks, just below her dark eyes.

  Ben could not be certain if she were meant to be an American footballer, or an Apache squaw. None of the dates below had any circles around them. Ben dropped the page quickly as if it had just taken a bite out of his fingers.

  He had to get out of here.

  He dropped to his haunches and offered the mutt a tickle behind one ear.

  “Stay here, boy,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He stood. Cal looked up expectantly. “Right back,” Ben echoed.

  He backed out of the small office, shielding the opening with his legs so Cal could not escape. The door shut with a gentle click. Ben stood there for a second, expecting to hear the mutt bark from within.

  Silence.

  Good boy, thought Ben. Maybe the mutt had started to tune in to the fact that not all was normal. Not today. Not on a day that was circled. No sir.

  He moved away from the office and entered the main diner. The lights were off inside, and he could clearly see the immediate area beyond the diner. Everything brightly illuminated by the lights of the overhang.

  Rivers and the deputy were pressed up against one of the gas pumps. The thing that had arrived recently was standing just a few yards from them. Ghoulish face bone white and switchblade glinting with hideous intent. The figure’s one working eye roamed over the dark interior.

  Ben had a moment of pure terror when that one eye seemed to stop at him. Pinned him in place with that unblinking orb. But in the next second, it moved on, towards the opposite end of the diner. All it had to do was twist its head that little bit further and it would spot the two in their hiding place.

  Ben understood they needed his help.

  And fast.

  He was all action then. He sidestepped, his hand reaching out to pluck something off the wall. The fire extinguisher weighed heavier than it looked, and Ben almost dropped it to the floor. It swung low, but he managed to bring it under his control.

  In the next instant, he was heading for the fire escape. As he quickly traversed the short hallway, his hand sought out the length of wire that he’d tucked away in his pocket – the one Rivers had used as a leash.

  His plan was clear in his mind by the time he reached the exit. With no time to ponder over the possibilities of what could be waiting beyond, Ben dropped to one knee. He hit the operating bar and the fire exit swung open.

  The cook’s body was still laid out flat.

  Ben did not know if he should feel relief or remorse. A terrible fate. Yet one that did not involve running around, like some undead spectre, looking to seek out the blood of others. A fair trade in some respects.

  Ben pulled the pin from the extinguisher, and positioned the short, black funnel away from him. He hit the trigger and a thick powder burst out. The sound was deafening in the tight confinements of the hallway.

  Using the wire, he wrapped it as many times as he could around the trigger mechanism, his fingers screaming in pain every time his hand had to pass the jet of freezing powder.

  He threw the canister as far as he could then, towards the front of the motel, further than the perpetually sleeping cook, and into the night.

  Wasting no time, he slammed the fire exit shut and then headed quickly back the way he had come.

  He only prayed he had been fast enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The game was up. Rivers knew that the second Meadows had used his name. He chanced a look at the deputy and could see her clear understanding of what that single announcement had meant.

  The thing standing just a few yards knew his name.

  Knew him.

  Rivers shook his head, a slight yet purposeful gesture – now was not the time.

  Anderson’s gaze just bore into him.

  He dropped his head again as shame weighed heavily against his conscience. Took a breath, and then focused back on the thing that threatened them.

  Meadows was stood just within the periphery of the overhang. His clothes were a sodden mess of rainwater and blood. A thick splash of crimson had marred the t-shirt he wore, starting from his neckline all the way to the garment’s lower edge. Arterial blood, which glistened under the glare of the lights.

  The blade in his hand glinted too, only a few spots of blood tarnishing the slick and sharp instrument, and the razor’s edge cast off a short bolt of lightning from hilt to tip.

  Mercifully, Meadows had his attention towards the front of the diner. He stood there with his head in that off kilter position, eye twitching from one side to the other.

  He jerked mechanically in the direction of the motel.

  Had something caught his attention.

  Meadows walked towards it. His steps spasmodic and somewhat uncoordinated, back rigid and head cast sideways. He disappeared around the diner - the rain and darkness guiding him there.

  Rivers stood slightly with his back arched over.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The deputy wavered for a second until he reached out to pull her up. Together, they crossed the short gap between gas pump and entrance.

  They pushed their way inside, bent low, where Rivers reached up to shut and secure the doorway. He turned to find the deputy’s gun in his face.

  “Hey,” he said, crouched low.

  Anderson had one knee up, the other fixed to the floor. She glanced outside, and used the firearm to point towards the rear. Then back to Rivers.

  “Go,” she ordered.

  Rivers looked into her eyes. They were clear and unwavering. She was not fucking around. He remained in a stooped position, and made his way towards the back of the diner.

  The deputy followed him, mirroring his movements.

  Rivers entered the rear.

  Anderson entered a second later. She jabbed with her weapon, which forced him to step further within.

  “What
the fuck is going on?” Ben asked, his large frame suddenly there too.

  Rivers spread his hands. “It’s complicated,” he said.

  The deputy frowned with disdain. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a real son of a bitch.”

  “Really?” Ben asked, confusion clear.

  The deputy took a deep breath, took a few moments to regain her composure. “You still got that piece of yours?”

  Ben nodded. “Still here,” he said, pulling the tail of his shirt up.

  “Good,” Anderson said. “Watch the front. If you see anything, shoot it.”

  Ben looked from one face to the next. Rivers nodded. The deputy tilted her head towards the front. They both seemed eager to speak privately.

  “Okay,” Ben said, pulling the firearm from his waistband. The trucker slipped quickly away, to take up position somewhere at the front of the diner.

  “Start talking – Rivers,” Anderson said once he’d gone. “How does that … thing, know who you are?”

  Rivers dropped his hands. Leaned heavily against the wall at his side. Her eyes were filled with expectation – she was not going to be fooled.

  “Okay,” he said. “He’s Lieutenant Meadows. A friend. From my days back in the army. The war. He’s sick. Dying actually. Leukaemia.”

  “Looked pretty fucking capable to me,” Anderson shot back.

  Rivers nodded. No disputing that fact. Meadows should not be walking – let alone capable of a killing spree.

  “Agreed,” he said. “It’s the rain. Has to be.”

  The deputy just held his gaze. “What brought you here – Rivers? The both of you. The truth.”

  He had to look away for a moment, his mind working out what should be said. What could be said. He breathed heavily.

  “I was trying to help him. With health costs. He didn’t have any insurance. We got involved in something that went bad.”

  “Bad?” Anderson echoed.