by Caleb Casey
The door comes crashing in, wood splintering at the locks. The masked things enter the apartment, shiny medical blades in their gloved hands.
I take two steps forward and swing, aiming for the first mask’s rubbery nose. I connect, crunching whatever’s underneath it. The thing goes down, a muffled shriek coming out of its broken, masked face.
The second masked thing says something in a language that sounds like Greek or Chinese or something else that’s completely alien to me. The thing lunges at me, trying to stab me with its knife. I sidestep it and swing low, bashing its knee. It drops its blade and falls, face to the floor. Hannah doesn’t hesitate; she gets her vengeance. Hannah drops to her knees and swings the cleaver, driving it down into the thing’s exposed neck just below the flap of its rubbery mask.
The first thing is still shrieking in agony. A third masked thing is standing in the open doorway, syringe in hand, seeming hesitant to venture in. Damn right you’re hesitant, I want to tell it. I’m not a happy man. Wrong door to break open on this particular night.
Maybe the thing can read my mind; it turns to flee. I charge at it and jump, planting one foot into its back. The force sends the masked thing into and through the railing and into a quick one-story plunge. It lands on the asphalt below with a crunch and bleeds into the snow.
Back to the one whose face I destroyed. It’s still shrieking and bleeding, bubbly black gore spilling out of the eye holes of its flesh-colored mask. Hannah is trying to free the cleaver from the other one’s neck, not having much success. The blade’s buried deep. I aim for the wounded thing’s skull and pummel it, using the head of the golf club to smash whatever’s underneath the mask into pulp.
Snow’s blowing into the apartment. I prop the front door shut with a chair and go to Hannah. She stands, backing off.
I rip the cleaver free and flip the body over.
“Want to see what’s under the masks?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Hannah says. “Maybe not.”
“I’d better take a look,” I tell her. “Turn away if you don’t want to see it.”
It occurs to me that I might’ve just killed three people, murderers or not. Their blood looks black, not red, but that could simply be something optical. I’m hoping to find the face of a demon, a monster, under this human mask. I pull it off.
“Oh God,” Hannah says. She has one hand up to her face as if to shield her eyes, but she’s peering through her fingers.
The thing has a human face… a human face that’s been surgically sewn on. It’s wearing the skin of a man like a permanent mask. There’s a series of black stitches running from ear to ear along the bottom of the jaw. The mask skin is clean shaven except for the eyebrows. There’s another series of stitches circling each eye socket. The eyes are shut; I reach toward them with one hand.
“What are you doing?” Hannah asks.
The creature’s real skin is grayish and rough. Using my thumb, I push one gray eyelid back. The thing’s eye is entirely black – no discernable pupil or iris. I remove my hand, letting the eyelid clench shut.
“You’re not going to check under the… skin, are you?” she asks, pointing at it.
“Not a chance,” I tell her. She laughs, a sick, hysterical chuckle. For a moment, it looks as though she might vomit. I feel oddly calm.
I stand up, looking down at the dead thing.
“Was that enough vengeance for you?” I ask. “Or should we try for more?”
“I don’t know,” Hannah says. “What do you think we should do?”
“My fiancée’s gone, my apartment’s wrecked, I can’t sleep; I just bludgeoned to death something that shouldn’t even exist… I’m up for whatever.”
We decide to get in the car and drive. She tries to call a few people with my phone, has no luck getting anyone to answer, declines leaving voice mail messages concerning face-stealing monsters. I try the computer; the Internet connection isn’t working.
We bundle up for the trip outside. I look around, trying to decide if I should bring anything else. I grab the note from the TV and pull the engagement ring off. I crumple the note and fling it into the corner.
I wonder if Sheila got out of town, or if she was murdered by these masked things. I dismiss the thought and pocket the ring.
“Okay,” I say. “We should get going.”
“Don’t you want to pack some clothes or take any other stuff with you?”
“If there are reinforcements on the way, I’d rather not get our faces chopped off worrying about some T-shirts and underwear,” I tell her. She almost laughs.
We venture into the night, two insomniacs. It’s snowing.
We drive away. I wonder if we’ll get any more opportunities for that thing that starts with a V.
More from C. Casey:
The Demon Version
Three young women. One possessed. Rush her to a hospital? A church? Or, as one of them suggests, maybe they’ll prefer the demon version.
The Winged Things
A hellfire sky, no power, winged things prowling. A strange apocalypse? Something worse? Hole up, or make a run for the nearest church?
Visit C. Casey’s Facebook author page:
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Table of Contents
I. The Big Truck That Hospital People Drive Around
II. Insomnia
III. Mask
IV. The Thing That Starts With V