Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  THIRTY-SIX

  5:21 p.m.

  SEBASTIAN KNEW HE was dying.

  His hands were beginning to shake. A cold sweat had broken out over his entire body. He needed to get to a hospital immediately. But he couldn’t risk dragging himself back out into the hall. Daniel could be there, and Sebastian would have no hope of escaping. No, all he could do now was wait until someone else found him or Daniel came to his senses.

  At the very least, Moore and Wainwright were also injured. At worst, they were dead.

  The ghost of a memory appeared in his mind, an image through a window—bodies in this house, the bodies of his friends—and then it was gone, dissipating like morning mist.

  Sebastian thought of Daniel. There was no easy way out of this for him. But showing some mercy on Sebastian and Sam might count for something in the eyes of the law.

  If Sam is still alive.

  He had heard the shouts coming from the staircase leading to the third-story bedroom. This had been followed by a heavy clatter that could only be the brick wall toppling to the floor. He had no idea what this meant, but he hoped with all his heart that Sam had escaped. Then the voices had begun again, floating up through the floor like smoke from a fire below. The conspiratorial din of gossip.

  Sitting on the floor, his back propped against the wall, Sebastian stared at his pale, bony hands and whispered to them to stop shaking. The movement made him uneasy. He could get through this. The bleeding from his side had stopped for the moment. He certainly had internal injuries, but he could make it out alive. All he had to do was stay calm.

  The sight of his trembling hands was becoming too much to bear. Sebastian clutched them together and held them to his chest. He closed his eyes, searching his mind for some form of reassurance, an image perhaps, a reminder of happier times. Yet all of his memories were fading like old photographs. He thought of Richard, back before the symptoms of his cancer made themselves known. He thought of having tea in the garden just behind their house, purple clusters of hydrangeas blooming in the shade of a young redbud tree. He clutched to this image like a drowning man to a passing log, attempting to lose himself in the safety it offered.

  Out in the hallway, a floorboard creaked. But Sebastian did not hear it. He was drifting off toward the garden and Richard and the smile that promised everything would be all right.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was there. The clarity was startling. He blinked in the dappled sunshine. Breathed in the moist summer air. Smelled the fragrant aroma of lemon peel tea.

  “Richard?” he called out.

  There was no reply.

  The old wooden rocker, Richard’s preferred seat in the garden, showed the slightest hint of disturbance, as if someone had just abandoned it.

  “Richard? Where are you?”

  An arbor overgrown with crimson trumpet vines signaled the end of the garden and the beginning of what Sebastian called “the back lot,” where his meticulously pruned and weeded flower bed gave way to the natural wild of the forest. Someone was moving among the trees.

  “Richard! It’s me! It’s Sebastian!”

  The person appeared to hear his voice, pausing before the thick stump of a rotted oak. It was not Richard, but a woman, her skin a few shades darker than the bark of the tree that sheltered her. She stared at him as if confused by his voice.

  “Hello,” he said, moving a few feet in her direction. “Who are you?”

  She said nothing, but as he neared, she began to shake her head slowly. For every step he took toward her, she took one in the opposite direction. Still her head shook.

  “My dear, what on earth is the matter?” Sebastian asked.

  She backed farther and farther into the shadowed woods, her face obscured by the diminishing light. Now her hands were raised, her palms held out toward him as if asking him to stay back.

  But Sebastian did not listen. He followed her deeper into the forest and the darkness that welcomed them both like a lover’s arms.

  Daniel stared dumbly at the smear of blood on the floor. The sight of it did not worry him. It was not his blood.

  Sebastian was still alive. And from the path of blood, it was clear he had crawled into this bedroom.

  He pressed his ear up against the door but heard nothing. His fingers tightened on the hatchet. Its handle was slippery with blood and sweat.

  In the beginning, these quiet moments led to the desire to call off his assault. He would find himself thinking about these people as friends, remembering bits and pieces of a time before Claire’s death when everything had had worth. But that time had passed. There was no going back. He had to see this through to the end.

  He glanced over his shoulder and there was Claire, her strawberry blond hair dancing in the light, a warm, loving smile for her daddy.

  So there were still two more. But only two more, and then she would be with him. Their sacrifice would mean the re-formation of his family. What man wouldn’t do everything he could to save his family?

  In the stillness, Daniel listened as the thud of his overstressed heart forced out sharp, shallow breaths. Soon he became aware of another sound—the soft click of a latch withdrawing.

  Slowly, the bedroom door swung open on squeaky hinges.

  Cautiously, Daniel peeked inside the room.

  And there was Sebastian, back to the wall, staring off into space. The lower half of his shirt and his pants were wet with blood. The old man had not been the one to open the door.

  It was the house. The house had let Daniel in.

  “For her,” Daniel whispered as he moved into the room, the door swinging slowly shut behind him.

  The tips of Sam’s shoes touched the window ledge. His right foot slipped on the wet concrete, the weight of his body shifting unexpectedly, and for a moment he was sure he was going to fall. He tightened his grip on the metal gutter, his fingernails scraping painfully against it. The panic lasted only a few seconds, and then his foot found the ledge once more.

  Beneath the overhang of the roof, he was sheltered for the moment, although the rain pelted his hands and sent long streams of water running down his arms. Thunder crackled overhead, a strange electrical quality to it, like the fizzle of an exposed wire.

  He had gotten lucky; this window looked into the bedroom in which Sebastian had taken refuge. Sam stared at his reflection in the glass, squinting to see past this, into the murky room. He thought he could make out some movement within, just to the right of the bed.

  Making sure his grip on the gutter was solid, Sam carefully tapped the base of the window with the toe of his shoe.

  “Sebastian,” he said, just loud enough to penetrate the window.

  Something glinted in the darkness, catching what little light there was, like the sliver of a moon in a black sky. Then it was gone, reclaimed by the shadows.

  Sam knocked the window again, a bit louder this time. “Sebastian. Can you hear me?”

  A face slammed into the glass and Sam jerked back, one hand losing its hold on the gutter above. He fumbled to keep his feet on the ledge, knowing there was nowhere to which he could retreat. The face was twisted into an awful grimace like the gnarled bark of an ancient tree—eyes wide, mouth gaping in a crooked moan. Blood smeared the windowpane, leaving a swath of deep red.

  “Sebastian . . .” Sam could barely find the breath to mutter the name.

  The elderly writer stared out at him as if to ask why, why this was happening to him, why he deserved such a fate. He was Sebastian Cole, legendary author, godfather of modern horror. Without him, there would be no Sam McGarver. And now he was being murdered.

  Digging his fingers into the side of the gutter, Sam reared back his foot and gave the window a hard, swift kick. The pane was thin; the force of the kick should have easily shattered the glass. Instead, a spiderweb of cracks shot out from its center, but the pane held.

  Sam attacked the window, over and over. “Sebastian! Hold on! Just hold on!”

  Sebastian
mouthed something, a silent plea, and then sadness flooded his face, the realization of defeat. From behind him, another face rose up, specked with blood.

  Daniel bared his teeth, a cross between a grin and a growl, and in that moment, as time seemed to screech to an unbearable halt, Sam found himself face-to-face with a monster. He had written of madness in several of his books, but no words ever committed to paper captured the purity of this insanity. There was nothing left of Daniel Slaughter. There was only this thing, this blood-drenched creature, a puppet of Kill Creek.

  Sam was not aware of speaking, but he heard his voice echo in his ears, yelling, “Daniel, no!”

  He was too late. The hatchet rose into the air, so stained with flesh and blood that it resembled a prehistoric tool, a sharpened stone used to massacre enemies. Sebastian’s eyes rolled back as he caught sight of the weapon. He watched helplessly, awaiting his end.

  It was swift. One moment, the hatchet hung above Sebastian like the blade of a guillotine; the next, it was gone, buried deep into the pale flesh of the old man’s neck. A geyser of blood sprayed the window, the crimson fountain obscuring Sam’s view.

  With no thought of falling, Sam kicked off from the ledge, hoisting himself out into the air and swinging back toward the house, his feet held flat in front of him. This time, the window gave in, the pane exploding in a shower of glass. A sliver still held by the wooden frame sliced Sam’s leg, but he felt no pain. He had to get inside. He had to stop Daniel.

  His feet hit the large man in the chest, knocking him back a few steps as he fought to keep his balance. Then Sam was swinging out again, away from the gaping hole left by the demolished window and into the pouring rain.

  Get back to the ledge, Sam’s mind ordered. Get your footing, climb through the window, and put this bastard down!

  Sam kept his eyes on the window ledge, his hands pulling up on the rain gutter to bring his body back toward this target. In only one second, he would be inside the house. From there, he had no plan except to get the hatchet away from Daniel.

  The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked as they made contact with the concrete ledge. At the same time, a cold gust of wind blew down from the purple clouds, causing the curtains that hung inside the shattered window to billow out like the sails of a ship. And from between the drapes burst Daniel, hatchet swiping the air. The blade slid across Sam’s belly, a damp scarlet patch immediately seeping through his shirt.

  “Just let me do this! Let me finish it!” Daniel shrieked, the last of his words obscured by the crash of furious thunder overhead.

  Sam pushed off with his feet, once more leaving the ledge and swinging into open air. Daniel thrust his arm out and whipped the hatchet back and forth in a desperate attempt to make contact. The action was wild, unplanned, and Sam’s rain-slicked fingers could no longer keep their grip. He felt them slip free from the gutter. Watched as Daniel grew farther and farther away. It was not until he was almost to the ground that Sam realized he was falling.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  5:50 p.m.

  SAMMY? THE VOICE called from the watery depths of the past. Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting me?

  Sam opened his eyes. He had no sense of time. Had it been a minute? An hour? He blinked in the falling rain, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the downpour. Pain screamed up his leg as he shifted his body. His entire foot throbbed with the steady beat of his heart.

  Sam shook the fog from his head and tried to push himself up into a sitting position. This slight movement sent a lightning bolt of pain all the way from his ankle to the base of his brain. He heard himself cry out even as he tried desperately to remain quiet. He knew Daniel would be coming. If he had been out for long, Daniel could be upon him in seconds.

  As a moan squeezed through his clenched teeth, Sam forced himself to stand up. His right ankle was broken, the flesh already swelling up like a fat purple sausage. He tried to put some weight on it and almost toppled over, the pain excruciating.

  You’re lucky to be alive, he thought, and then that final image of Sebastian flashed across his mind—eyes rolled back, mouth agape, hatchet biting deeply into his neck, the fountain of blood splashing against the bedroom window, hot and thick. Sam knew he wouldn’t be alive for long. Not if Daniel found him like this, out in the open, unprotected with a broken ankle.

  The sound of the front door slamming got him moving. He hobbled along on his left foot, trying to put as little pressure on his right as he moved. He bit his lip to suppress a cry, his eyes tearing more with each step.

  He could hear Daniel clomping down the the front steps, could just make out his grunts as he marched angrily around the house. Normally, Sam could outrun Daniel, but not with a broken ankle. If Sam didn’t find a hiding place quickly, there was a good chance Daniel would catch him. And then . . .

  Sam knew what happened then. He would get the hatchet, just like the others.

  It was all the motivation he needed. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind, forcing it down into a small, dark place.

  He quickly scanned the area around him with wild eyes.

  The woods. Too far. Too little protection.

  The back door. No good. He would have to backtrack, and Daniel was coming.

  At the base of the house, near the southeast corner, Sam spotted an indentation in the ground. It was overgrown with weeds, but it was clearly a depression, dipping down a couple feet. Through the wild grass he could barely make out the reddish hues of a rusty grate and beyond this, the blackness of a tunnel.

  The crawl space.

  “Sam!” Daniel roared from around the other side of the house.

  Sam had to move.

  Forgetting his injured foot, he took a quick step forward and his ankle buckled, bending at an unnatural angle. He only had time to let out an anguished yelp before he fell flat. The palms of his hands mashed down into the thick mud.

  Sam glanced quickly to his left, just as Daniel rounded the corner. A demented smile rose to Daniel’s face as he saw Sam lying helplessly on his stomach. He tightened his grip on the hatchet. The rain washed over him, turning a light pink as it mixed with the blood that covered his face, his chest, his hands.

  “Sam,” he whispered hungrily.

  Something in Sam’s mind clicked and his body responded, moving without thought, pulling him across the yard toward the weed-shrouded crawl space. Sam could almost feel the thump-thump-thump of Daniel’s footsteps as he bounded over the rain-slicked grass. But Sam did not look back. His eyes were fixed on that rusty square and the blackness it covered, the blackness that meant escape. Soon his fingers were touching the cold concrete that bordered the hole, one hand reaching out for the weathered metal grate.

  A flash of panic lit up inside him like ignited gunpowder: What if the grate is like the brick wall and the boarded-up window? What if it won’t budge? What if I can’t remove it in time?

  But it did budge. It easily ripped free with one yank. The rusted screws snapped just below their heads.

  Sam flung the grate aside and wriggled into the dark tunnel. The musty odor of damp earth enveloped him. He could hear himself whimpering pitifully at the thought of safety, and the sound terrified him.

  He was halfway in when Daniel caught him. A hand grabbed Sam by his bad foot and wrenched it back, pulling him like a snake from a hole. The pain was unfathomable. Black spots exploded before his eyes, the dark threat of unconsciousness. “No!” he screamed. Tears began streaming down his cheeks, as if his body were trying to physically expunge the pain.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Daniel’s voice was low and raspy, barely recognizable as human.

  Sam began to kick wildly. He knew how horribly futile the action was. So even he was surprised when his foot connected with Daniel’s chin, whipping the man’s head back sharply. Sam felt Daniel’s grip loosen, then release completely. Immediately he was on the move, doing what he and his brother had called “the army crawl,” dragging his body for
ward with his elbows. Six inches. A foot. Two feet. Three.

  Daniel lunged at the crawl space, his large hand swiping at the open air, his fingers straining.

  “Goddammit!” Daniel cried suddenly. He yanked his hand back as if realizing he had just plunged it into scalding hot water. “Come out of there, you fuck! Come out!”

  Sam listened to Daniel’s labored breaths. He could now only see Daniel from the neck down, his body crouching as the storm pounded down on him. Farther and farther Sam scooted into the crawl space, the opening becoming smaller, the outside world narrowing as he tried to put distance between himself and this nightmare.

  It was the memory of the spiders that made Daniel jerk back from the crawl space. Those slick black bodies began to scurry about his brain, the splash of red on their bellies warning him to stay away. He could almost feel them beneath his skull, scampering over each other in a mad, hedonistic frenzy, their spindly legs tapping the spongy gray matter in an odd staccato rhythm.

  That childhood terror scratched at his brain stem like a mangy, rabid dog at a back door, begging to be let in. But he wouldn’t let it in. Because it wanted to destroy him.

  A hand slipped into his, and the army of arachnids that filled his head was gone in an instant. Claire, his wonderful daughter, was beside him. Yet her hand was so much colder now, the warmth of life fading, it seemed, with every ticking second.

  He turned to her and a gasp slipped from his trembling lips. She was smiling a smile that belonged only to him, but her teeth, which braces had straightened to perfection when she was twelve, were now as crooked as a rotted picket fence, their once-white brilliance stained black. They hung loosely in her puffy gray gums.

  “Daddy,” she whispered, and a line of blood slipped from her hairline, coursing down the side of her face. Its color was devastatingly bright against the pallor of her flesh. “Daddy, you have to hurry. Don’t let him get away, Daddy. I don’t have long.”

  Fresh tears rose to Daniel’s eyes. He was so close. He wouldn’t fail. He couldn’t. Not now, after all he had done.