Nicolas pulled his van beside the shed and loaded the boxes into it. Once the van was full, Nicolas was behind the wheel. He drove past Olive’s corpse and made for town. He dropped off his first box of explosives in the place he abducted Beth and William.
The bodies impaled upon the sticks were surprising, and he wondered if he had done it himself and forgotten about it. It was possible. Sometimes he forgot things, and last night was a big night for him. He killed people, and was still killing people. But still, impaling people on sticks seemed like the type of thing he would have remembered.
Nicolas shrugged.
He supposed that it didn’t matter one way or another. He was going to burn the town to the ground and nothing was going to stop him.
6:26 am. He noticed Leanne Wakefield, impaled in front of her home. And she wasn’t the only one. There were seventeen other men, women and children impaled in their yards, and Nicolas knew he wasn’t responsible; he didn’t have the time.
7:29 am. He placed explosives at St. Peter’s Catholic church.
7:36 am. He entered the residential area, and began hiding explosives every few houses. The streets were empty, save the fact there were more bodies impaled in the yards. The neighborhood looked like it had gone through a war. Windows were smashed and doors were kicked in. Some of the impaled were still alive. One man begged to be saved. A woman asked him to end her suffering. He saw a pregnant woman impaled with a child that couldn’t have been older than two. He saw a man impaled with his dog.
Nicolas smiled. He was living in one fucked up little town.
7:54 am. Nicolas entered the downtown core. Everything was quiet. Windows were smashed and blood was on the street. Several bodies and been tossed together in a pile. None of the stores were open and no cars were on the road, aside from one that had crashed into a telephone pole.
He placed packages at The Big Four O, the 7-11, Spooky’s Antique Palace, Miller’s Gas Station, Cloven Rock Secondary and the Post Office.
8:14 am. Nicolas entered the waterfront area. The carnage was everywhere, including the Police Station. He went there first, happy to see an officer impaled with an iron rod and left to die on the floor.
After he placed packages around the fallen officer, he visited the Yacht Club, the Waterfront Café, Tabby’s Goodies, Starbucks and McDonald’s.
8:29 am. Nicolas headed for home. He needed more explosives.
9:17 am. Once again, the van was filled with boxes. He sat behind the wheel and drove into town, wondering what the hell was going on.
∞∞Θ∞∞
∞Θ∞
~~~~ CHAPTER EIGHT: THE FOURTH BULLET
1
Daniel woke, still wearing yesterday’s clothing. He rubbed his fingers through his hair not knowing where he was. He didn’t recall the things that had happened. Not yet. Then, as the room came into focus, it came back to him. One by one, the memory of yesterday’s events began creating an image––a bad one.
He was inside Patrick’s cottage.
He remembered climbing the ladder. He remembered the giant room beneath his home. And Roger. Oh God, that thing ate Roger.
He took a deep breath and rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. His arms were sore. His neck was sore and bleeding. His legs were aching and he hadn’t even tried to stand yet. Standing was going to hurt. He knew it just by thinking about it. By the time he was up and walking about he figured his entire body would be writhing in agony. He renovated, climbed up and down the ladder more times than he could remember, battled monsters––it was no dream. Yesterday was a full day and his muscles were completely unprepared.
“Where’s Patrick,” he mumbled to himself.
Then he remembered. Patrick was in bed. Good enough for now.
Daniel stood up and sure as shit, his body was stiff and his muscles were screaming at him.
He thought about checking in on Patrick but he didn’t want to. Not yet. Not until he was awake. Patrick was doing all right, he told himself––but somehow he didn’t really believe it. Patrick needed a doctor, maybe more.
And maybe, just maybe… he was dead.
There was a part of him––the nicest part, most likely––that wanted to check in on Patrick as soon as he was able. He couldn’t though. He was getting a bad feeling about Patrick. He remembered Cameron (I had a dream about Cameron, didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I did…) and the way she turned violent. What if Patrick turned violent? What then? Did he have the energy to fight? No, he most certainly did not have that type of energy. Not yet. Not now.
Daniel relieved himself in the bathroom. He washed his hands and face in the bathroom sink before stumbling into the kitchen. He looked in the cupboards and in the fridge for something worth eating, or drinking. He drank a glass of water, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat down, trying hard to keep his mind from reeling. Once the coffee was ready he poured himself a cup. Then he poured a second cup and made his way into Patrick’s room with a drink in each hand.
The door was half-open, just the way he left it. So far, so good.
He entered the room, wondering if he should have a weapon. But why was he thinking that? There was no reason to think he was in danger, was there?
Sure there is, his mind suggested. Remember Cameron? Remember what she did?
As he stepped inside the room he looked at Patrick and his hands began to shake. Coffee spilled over both cup rims. He clomped the cups onto the dresser and stared at his friend with a hand over his mouth and his eyes wide open.
“This isn’t right,” he said, shaking his head in denial. “This is impossible.”
But it wasn’t impossible. It was unlikely but obviously not impossible. What he was seeing was as clear as day.
Patrick Love was inside a cocoon.
2
Daniel approached Patrick slowly, eyeing him like he came from another planet. A moment passed. He turned away. Mind racing. Spotting his coffee, he lifted it from the dresser and quickly left the room. He marched down the hall, into the living room, and sat on the couch. A splash of coffee spilled onto the floor as he sat down. He didn’t notice. He wanted to phone someone but he didn’t have a phone. He wanted to talk things over but there was nobody to talk with. Patrick Love was inside a cocoon. And what, exactly, was he supposed to do about that?
He drank from the cup.
His eyes were playing tricks on him. That had to be the answer, right? Because it wasn’t Patrick inside the cocoon, it was one of those crab-things.
Yeah. Sure. That sounds good. It’s one those crab-things.
No.
It wasn’t one of those crab-things. It was Patrick. He could see Pat’s young and handsome face through the silk, turning dark, turning black. So where did that leave him? Should he pull Patrick out of the cocoon, or leave him inside it?
Would Pat die inside the cocoon?
Would he die if he were yanked from the webbing?
Daniel didn’t have the answers for such questions. He wasn’t a doctor. He wasn’t a scientist. He was a moneyman: insurance, mortgages, real estate––that was his game. Friends living inside a cocoon? Not his field.
He drank another sip, and another. After he finished his coffee he looked in on Patrick one more time.
Nothing had changed.
He needed to do something, anything––but what? He didn’t have a car. So where did that leave him? Walking. Was that really the answer? Was it time to lace up his shoes and make his way into town? It seemed like there was nothing else he could do, so yeah, walking into town. That was the answer.
Right?
Maybe.
God, he thought. What a mess.
A sound was heard; Daniel snapped his head towards the window.
A crab-critter was walking across the glass. He could see little hooks, needles and suction circles on the bottom of the creature’s feet. Its stalks were long and thin. Its mouths were opening and closing quickly, like they were hungry. The thing looked like an oversized inkbl
ot on pelican legs. And seeing it forced Dan to re-evaluate his thinking.
Was stepping outside really the game plan?
His mind returned to Patrick inside the cocoon.
Sadly, he decided, it was. And on the heels of that thought he stood up, looked at the thing that was clinging to the window and decided to find a weapon. Locating a gun in Patrick’s cottage would be impossible. Patrick’s father was an anti-gun man; he believed all firearms should be outlawed.
So where did that leave Dan?
Ironically, the first weapon he thought about was the same one that Nicolas used to smash Olive’s face: a sledgehammer. Of course, there wouldn’t be anything like that inside the building––perhaps in the shed or under the deck, but not inside. And he didn’t want to go outside to look, not while he was unarmed, so what now?
Daniel entered the kitchen. He didn’t see anything worth grabbing. He opened a closet and discovered coats and jackets, sweaters and shoes. There was a broom, however, but the handle was very thin and brittle looking. There was also a small toolbox that he didn’t bother opening. He didn’t believe a hammer, a tape measure, or a screwdriver was going to cut it.
He returned to living room, looked at the fireplace, and found his answer attached to the wall beside it. The answer came in the form of a heavy, black iron poker. It had a nice handle on one end and a sharp hook on the other.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
After checking on Patrick one last time he made his way outside. The sun was shining; the air was almost still. He glanced at the raft floating in the lake and the small waves that crashed against it.
A crab-creature ran across the yard, heading straight for him. Another leapt off the roof and landed at his feet.
Without much thought, he kicked the closest critter, spun around and stabbed the other one with the poker. The poker pierced the creature easily, but creature was still alive. He stepped on it and moved away from the house, nervous that another attack might come from above.
He walked away from Patrick’s place cautiously, heading for his summer home.
William’s 1979 firebird was sitting in the driveway. His cottage windows were smashed and his side door was wide open. He spotted three more crab-critters, but none were attacking.
How many of the creatures are running free? he thought. And what harm have they caused? Have people been hurt? Have authorities been notified?
His mind shifted gears. Now he was thinking about Cameron, William and Beth: they must be at the hospital.
Another crab-thing moved towards him and he stomped it, creating a ball of mush beneath his shoe. Then he walked away from his house and headed down the driveway.
His eyes were stinging; the sun seemed very bright.
3
After hiding in the woods for hours, Beth returned to the road and approached Olive with a hand at her mouth and tears rolling down her face.
That son of a bitch, she thought. That fucking prick.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
The word ‘tragedy’ didn’t even begin to describe the naked girl’s remains. She looked worse than anything Beth had ever seen or imagined. Olive had been abused for years, then pulverized. Her head looked like a smashed coconut covered in human gore.
And––
Lying beside the broken corpse was a Colt Python 357 magnum. It must have fallen from Nicolas’ pocket.
Beth lifted the weapon, checked to see if it was loaded, and smiled. Given the chance she would shoot the man, of this she had no doubt. He deserved death. If anyone in the entire world deserved death, it was Nicolas. And although she never thought she would kill a man, not in this lifetime, for him she’d make an exception. She wasn’t sure if she believed in God or not, but if there was a God, he would understand. He would forgive.
After wiping away her tears, she continued on.
A few crab-things scurried along the edge of the road, less than twenty feet away from her, but none of them attacked. But she kept an eye on them, and she kept the gun ready.
A few minutes later she was nearing Daniel’s place. When she arrived she was surprised to find Daniel on the driveway, walking towards her. His eyes were busy checking nearby trees. He looked nervous and upset.
“Daniel!” Beth shouted.
Daniel looked up. “Beth?”
“Oh my God,” she said. “Am I glad to see you!”
They met with a hug; then Daniel said, “What happened to you? Where’s William? Where’s Cameron?”
Beth’s strong features became laced in heartbreak. Her eyes, which looked swollen and tired, glistened with tears. Her bottom lip quivered momentarily, and with a deep breath she put a hand to her mouth.
“Oh Daniel,” she said. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Where’s my car?”
Beth shrugged. “It’s in a ditch.”
“Where’s William?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have his car keys? Because his car is still in my driveway, and if you have his keys with you––”
“No, I don’t have them. William has them.”
“Where do you think he is? Is he at the hospital? Is he––”
Beth interrupted. “Dan, we never made it to the hospital. I think William is dead.”
“Dead?”
“I not positive, but… yeah. I’d be surprised if he survived the night.”
“My God, what happened?”
Skirting the question, Beth looked over her shoulder to make sure there were no crab-critters around. “Where are you going right now?”
“Town,” Dan said flatly. “And if you don’t have the keys to William’s car, I think we should start walking.”
Beth nodded.
They started walking.
“Where in town are you thinking?” Beth asked.
“Honestly, I haven’t been thinking. I just woke up and Patrick… ” Daniel trailed off, trying to find the right combination of words. Somehow saying that ‘Pat was inside a cocoon’ sounded absolutely insane, and he didn’t even want to admit the things that were happening. It was all too much.
Beth said, “Who’s Patrick?”
“What, you didn’t meet him?” A slight pause. “No, I suppose you didn’t. Pat’s just a kid, but he’s also a good friend of mine. His parents have a cottage next door, and he was in that bomb shelter when Cameron and I escaped.”
“Bomb shelter? Is that what that thing is?”
“I think so. It might be something else. I don’t know what it is.”
Beth noticed two crab-things crawling up a tree together. She nudged Daniel, and he saw them too.
“Some of them are aggressive,” Beth said.
“Yeah. And some of them aren’t. Killing the small ones is easy enough. I’ve stomped a whole bunch of them with my shoe.”
“I’ve got this,” Beth said. She showed him the gun.
“I noticed.”
“I’m sure it’ll do the trick.”
“It will, but it’s overkill.”
Something was on the road behind them. Hearing it approach, they turned around.
A van was racing towards them––a white van.
“Oh thank God,” Daniel said. He raised his arms, waving the vehicle down.
Beth’s face became fortified with concern. The van was traveling too fast, and she couldn’t help thinking that she had seen that van before.
She had. It was sitting in Nicolas Nehalem’s driveway.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Dan looked at her confused. “What’s wrong?
The van was accelerating, heading straight for them.
Beth screamed, “DAN! LOOK OUT!”
She pushed Daniel towards the side of the road with her free hand and bolted in the opposite direction.
Dan stumbled, not realizing what was happening.
The van swerved towards him as he was stumbling. He didn’t have his balance. And the van was close, too cl
ose; it was going to hit him. If he didn’t do something quick he was going to get run down!
His mouth opened and his eyes widened.
He whispered something inaudible.
At the far side of the road Beth turned around. The van, she could easily see, was not going to hit her. It wasn’t trying to hit her––it was aimed at Dan. And oh sweet, sweet, mercy, it looked like it was going to hit him dead on.
Dan raised an arm and opened his mouth wide.
Beth caught a glimpse of Nicolas behind the wheel. His face was contorted into an evil smile that seemed more reptile than man.
And that was it.
The van slammed into Daniel.
Dan fell back. His body was sucked beneath the front bumper. The back of his head slammed against the road and his left knee got caught on something beneath the vehicle. Perhaps it was the muffler. His body snapped in the middle and rolled into a ball. Arms and legs went spinning. A loud, terrible CRUNCH sound was heard. The van bounced up and down and when it was finally finished driving over its victim Dan appeared to have no head. It seemed to be missing, but it wasn’t. His head was packed into his chest.
Beth screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo!”
It didn’t matter; what was done was done. Daniel had been crushed into something that looked like 180 pounds of raw, pulverized, blood pudding. Broken bones stuck out from all angles. His fingers were twitching. A pool of red liquid was rapidly expanding across the road.
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