by Paul Cave
The woman skittered to the corner of the railings before her hands shifted her to the north side of the tower.
The deputy’s periphery caught something on the opposite side of her.
An old face this time, haggard and hair greying, and flesh around the mouth too slack to form a sneer or anything really threatening, giving the old man an odd look of confusion.
Anderson felt trapped between indecision. Should she focus on the woman or the elderly man? Which of them offered the most serious of threats? The businesswoman was scaling the railings, her legs flipping over the top, to drop threateningly on the platform on the north side.
The old man was coming over the barrier in a sodden mess. He flopped onto the platform in a tangle of limbs, clothes drenched and creased face dripping.
Anderson switched her attention towards the old man. He was less mobile than the businesswoman. Age and uncertainty slowing him down. He did not seem to be as focused like the woman – hatred not quite as rampant in him.
Once again, the deputy was reminded of the teenager – Maggie, who had changed in an instant once those drops of rainwater had tarnished her skin.
The deputy left the old man to Rivers. If he kept going around the cabin in that direction, he would have to pass Rivers first. Anderson figured the metal bar and a younger man’s strength should be no match against the old-timer.
The woman had made her way to the midpoint of the north face. She had choices, either way, or back over the railing.
She took neither. Instead, she threw herself against the glass window. It held, just, and she bounced off to leave a red smear where her head had connected.
The sudden attack made Anderson jump. She took a step away from the window, her range now greater.
The woman smiled on the other side. Teeth red with blood, her own, and lips curled back into a sneer. She came again, harder this time, using more bodyweight to throw against the window.
Glass cracked – a line running from top to bottom. She came again, and that one crack split into many. The woman was coming through next time – guaranteed.
The deputy held her breath.
Here she came.
Chapter Forty-Four
Maggie looked different. Her eyes were clearer, and her face had a focused look about it. That awful blankness had been replaced with a more cunning characteristic – and had she not been stood with fingers curled and teeth bared, she could have been mistaken for normal.
Ben did not like this new development. It was far easier for him to kill a hateful thing, rather than a thinking, emotionally capable individual.
Luckily, those bared teeth and bent fingers gave her the look of a savage. Likewise, the grunts and words that fell from her twisted lips added to the barbarity of her nature.
“Gut you like the fat pig you are,” she snarled.
Ben levelled the shotgun towards her.
Maggie understood the danger. She dropped low, the counter giving her the cover she needed.
Cal was barking madly – heckles raised along his spine, and tail down between his hind quarters.
Ben stepped forwards; the shotgun pointed out before him.
A hand appeared suddenly, from behind the counter, fingers clamping around the barrel of the firearm.
Ben felt the weapon pulling away from him. Panic sent a burst of adrenaline through his veins, and he managed to wrestle the weapon back in his favour.
The teenager gave out a scream of frustration.
Cal was there, teeth snapping at her exposed arm, and a growl of aggression bursting deep from his throat.
The little mutt’s attack gave Ben the freedom he needed. He sidestepped along the counter, bringing himself to the sizzling frying pan. A chance then, as he placed the loaded weapon on the countertop, swapping it for the wooden handle of the pan.
“Cal – back!” he ordered.
The mutt released his bite from the teenager’s arm and retreated away from her.
She stood, thinking the advantage had been won.
No.
Ben tossed the burning fat her way. The sizzling liquid stuck to everything and anything it touched. Counter, floor, tables, flesh.
Maggie screamed in pain. The fat splashed across her face – her skin bubbling into wet blisters within seconds.
Clear pus burst from the blisters to cascade down the plain of her face.
Ben felt a single moment of sickening sorrow. Yet, the image of the dead cook came to mind, and that second of uncertainty passed instantly.
She had killed an innocent man.
The trucker needed to focus on such facts. He scooped up the shotgun and brought it upwards.
Maggie was screaming with hateful rage and self-pity. Her face looked raw, bright reds blossoming across her cheeks, and one of her eyes had taken on a milky white look to it.
“What have you done?” she demanded.
The trucker did not waste time. He stepped away from the counter.
“Fuck you,” he said.
He pulled the trigger.
An almighty boom sounded as the buckshot ripped into Maggie. She was thrown violently backwards to crash through one of the diner’s windows.
A pink mist hung for a second, before the wind blew it into all oblivion.
Ben stepped towards the broken window. The shotgun was spent, yet he held it before him, as if the weapon could still protect him.
Maggie had landed in a twisted heap just beyond the gas pumps. The rain was battering against her, and Ben had a terrible moment of dread, as he imagined the heavy droplets would reanimate her back to health.
It did just that.
The teenager twitched. Her back arching off the ground, arms splayed out, in a crucifix fashion, and her head twisted grotesquely towards him.
She was climbing to her feet. Her chest looked ruined. Clothes torn by the pellets that had penetrated her skin. That ghastly look had returned. Maybe the buckshot had knocked any remaining humanity out of her. Her face looked feral.
Something bolted out of the darkness. A massive shadow that knocked the teenager off her feet. Sent her spinning violently into the air.
The bull elk scooped Maggie up effortlessly, its huge antlers sending her in a cartwheel of arms and legs. Two more elk rushed in – females – their hooves stomping against Maggie’s body as she landed heavily in the mud. Something made a noise like the hollow crack of ceramic, and the teenager’s head disintegrated in a red and grey mess of tissue and bone.
The female elk were bleating as they continued to flatten the body of the teenager. Hooves were smashing bones and flattening skin. By the time they had finished with her, she was little more than a mess of bloodied rags. Broken and stomped beyond all recognition.
Ben felt sick.
He collapsed into one of the few remaining chairs. All strength gone and resolve exhausted.
The male elk looked towards the lights of the diner. Captured Ben with those large, brown eyes.
The trucker could not breathe.
The male elk snorted. Turned towards the two females and bowed its head – those enormous antlers dipping towards the ground.
The females bleated.
Then, as quickly as they had come, the elk disappeared into darkness, leaving what had once been a living, breathing thing, behind them in a flattened and terrible mess.
Chapter Forty-Five
The window shattered and the woman staggered into the ranger’s cabin. Getting through the glass had taken its toll. Her face was a bloodied mess, nose looked misshapen, and the broken window had taken a slice from her cheek – a couple of top teeth visible where flesh should have been.
The deputy took aim. Fired her weapon. The bullet zipped wide of its mark. Another window burst in a shower of glass as the bullet tore through.
The woman was coming – she had shaken off her initial dazed appearance.
Anderson steadied herself. Held her breath. Focused all of her attention on that ghastly, leering
face. Fired for a second time.
Direct hit.
The woman’s face disintegrated. That broken nose imploded inwards, taking her entire facial features with it. A terrible gurgling sound bubbled from her ruined jaw.
Anderson had to look away, too horrific to witness. Still, she stepped forwards to place her boot into the woman’s midriff. The woman tottered backwards, her heels catching the frame of the broken window.
The night reclaimed her. She fell heavily against the railing, her reaction to spin in that direction, hooked fingers seeking out some unseen attacker. Her momentum carried her over the barrier, where she tipped headfirst towards the ground.
Anderson heard a sickening thud, as the woman’s flailing body hit the tower’s structure on her way down.
In the next instant, the deputy was heading for the door. Her senses at their highest. The weapon steady in her hand. As she sought out the next infected.
Jake Rivers was having a tumultuous struggle. The propane stove had dropped another step – the logger’s greater strength drawing it closer to him, and gravity giving him a helping hand.
If the thing dropped just one more step, then the stove would be lost.
Rivers could feel his shoulders almost popping. The metal bar had been discarded, as this battle of tug-o-war had become a twohanded affair.
Someone else appeared, to his side, the shambling old man in a sodden and torn night shirt. Rivers caught a glimpse of something shrivelled and unsightly. If that were not bad enough, Rivers’ compromised position brought the old man’s shrunken penis towards his face.
Hell no!
He had no other choice but to let the stove go. It fell immediately away from him, the sudden, unexpected release catching the logger by surprise. A grunt of pain sounded followed by the heavy clatter as both man and stove fell to the level below.
Rivers had the bar back in hand. The old man was reaching out but in a mostly uncoordinated way. His pale, bony arm was moving in clumsy circles, like that of a drunken snake, fingers spread, looking to find purchase.
Rivers almost felt sorry for the guy. But not enough to warrant the old man’s survival. He hit out with the metal bar, catching him a glancing blow across the skull. The man fell backwards, eyes fluttering, and feet tangling up together. The old man fell to the platform.
Spinning the bar around, Rivers brought it down, sharp end first, and jammed it into the man’s eye socket. Bare feet did a short jig, as the man’s brain tried to send him scurrying to safety. Rivers pushed his weight into the bar. It slid into the skull an inch or two further. With a twist, the bar shut off all cerebral activity, and the man lay still.
The deputy found Rivers standing over the body of the semi-naked man.
“You make a lovely couple,” she said, drawing his attention.
Rivers looked back in an apologetic fashion. “Jeez,” was the only response he could offer.
Anderson turned her attention to the open staircase – tilted her head, looked at Rivers.
“Things got interesting for a moment,” he said, at her side.
They looked down together.
The propane stove had fallen to the next level. The logger had gone down too, and he was currently thrashing about with his legs at odd angles, one of which had become trapped underneath the stove. He looked up to see the two of them stood above him.
“Fuckers!” he cursed.
The logger lifted himself onto his elbows. Pulled himself away from the stove and flopped over onto his front.
The deputy said, “Duck.”
Rivers said, “What?”
Anderson planted her feet apart, took hold of the firearm with both hands, and steadied herself.
“Wait - no!” Rivers cried.
“Duck – Rivers,” she said.
A crack of gunfire sounded. Then an almighty boom followed, the propane tank igniting, as fire spread out in a huge wave, which rolled upwards to fill the opening, pushing the deputy back as a wave of heat and flames burst before her.
The deputy dropped to the platform. The explosion sent a shockwave of energy to rip through her body, bones and teeth feeling the force of the blast, as it dispersed in a great rolling wave of fire.
Once the threat had bowled itself into all oblivion, the deputy climbed to her feet. Rivers was still down against the platform – arms and legs spread out about him.
“You coming?” Anderson asked, on her feet and ready to descend the stairs in front of her.
Rivers was struggling to find his footing. The blast seemingly knocking the wind out of him.
“I’m right behind you,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position.
The deputy was taking the stairs quickly, her boots echoing loudly as she bound down towards the base. She had a passion in her stomach, and she was not about to delay the justice she felt Meadows so deserved.
In her haste, she did not see the logger’s burnt and charred remains snag Rivers by the ankle. Nor did she see him fall heavily as the scorched mess dropped him to the floor.
The deputy had only one thought in her mind. Stop Meadows at any cost. She tore down the stairways, her weapon drawn and nothing but retribution on her mind.
She reached the base of the tower, her feet sinking slightly into the mud to be found there. The firearm sought out its target.
Meadows had pushed himself away from the stationary VW.
He was coming. Wild and frantic, the switchblade pressed out in front of him, and the razor-sharp blade ready to do its worst.
Chapter Forty-Six
Deputy Anderson dug her feet into the mud. The firearm was pointed towards the rushing target, her index finger only an ounce of pressure away from pulling on the trigger.
Meadows rushed forwards, his feet taking him at odd angles, his head and body bobbing this way and that, as he closed in on the deputy.
Anderson tried to match his movements, but they were too erratic for her to follow. He was almost on top of her. His leering face close enough to make out the tiniest of details. That dead eye looked practically normal, the bulbous aspect of it gone – just ever so slightly off-cast in appearance, and it seemed capable of focusing on the deputy.
The wound to his skull was also different. A thin membrane of tissue had worked its way over the initial fracture – brain matter hidden, and bones looking to meet, white plates ready to fuse back together.
The deputy saw all this in a matter of seconds.
Yet, it was too late to react.
The demented ghoul launched itself onto the vehicle parked under the tower – the Ford giving him the higher ground advantage. His boots thudded hollowly as the hood buckled slightly under his weight. He threw himself forward, arms outstretched and that terrible blade looking to seek purchase.
Meadows barrelled into Anderson, her lungs collapsing in a wheeze of air, and the firearm spinning from her fingers as it twirled into darkness.
He was on top of her. The switchblade going to work. It cut through cloth and skin with ease. Blood burst forth from the deputy’s chest. Her lung collapsing as the blade tore into the delicate tissue within.
She coughed out blood – the red tinge staining her lower lip.
Meadows looked like a man possessed. His eyes had rolled back into his skull. And lips were stretched wide, with bare teeth visible, and tongue snaking out.
The deputy tried to force him off. Yet, her chest betrayed her – energy leaking away quickly, with the blood that followed, seeping out into the mud.
A numbness engulfed her. That sense of urgency rendered into less of a panic, and she felt her body relax. The blade was unforgiving. Flesh parted, and red liquid filled the holes quickly, before slipping down to mar the ground around her.
Anderson was pulled violently upwards. The red tinge that had marked her passing leaving a blot of slaughter behind.
Meadows grabbed a handful of blonde hair. He pushed her towards the tower’s edge – the rain soaking into clothes and ski
n, and threatening to send the deputy into an uncontrollable rage.
She dropped to her knees. And, like the disciples that had given their souls to a higher form of consciousness, her face took on a look of rapture – all misty-eyed and filled with expectation.
She did not flail against her captor, yet allowed herself to be led towards the vehicles that were parked alongside the track of the tower.
Meadows dragged the deputy to the parked VW. He took a moment to secure her to the front fender. The handcuffs that had previously held Rivers captive were used to secure the deputy there.
Rain battered against her – clothes and flesh dampened by the never-ending torrent. The moment of serenity appeared to pass, and the deputy’s face flipped from calm to rage. She pulled against her restraints with the same singlemindedness of an innocent heading towards the gallows.
Meadows stood back. A look of accomplishment graced his face. This was the triumph he seemingly sought. The woman held in rapturous abandonment, and Rivers rendered incompetent and begging him for mercy.
Rivers was kicking out. Booted foot hitting against the charred remains of the logger. The guy’s flannel shirt had melted into his flesh, and the stench of burnt skin and charred material wafted heavily towards him.
Yet, hideously, the logger was still trying to pull Rivers closer. Fingers that had burst with heat – bones present, and flesh black and gnarled, were reaching out to snag their prey. Rivers kicked out again, and the logger’s hand retracted towards the molten mess that he had become.
Free now, Rivers managed to drag himself away from the logger. His hand sought the metal bar that had been dropped. Fingers snagged it, and the bar felt surprisingly warm – the heat of the fire having reforged it somewhat.
He climbed to his feet. Brought the weapon above his head.
The logger was done. His wounds too great for him to recover. Even the effects of the rain were unable to fix him. He rasped and hitched, and his lungs threatened to give out. The life from the logger’s eyes faded quickly, and his lungs offered a final sigh of air.