The Scourge

by R. Tilden Smith

  The entrance to the building was straight ahead, two large glass doors connected to the garage by a short vestibule. The vehicle entrance was a couple of hundred feet ahead and to his left, about halfway between him and the vestibule. The vehicle entrance to the garage was blocked by a large wrought iron automated gate, the kind that slides to one side. Someone had wrapped and padlocked a thick chain around the end post and through several of the pickets, preventing the gate from being opened. Ray was relieved to see that the pickets were closely spaced and extended almost to the ground. Damn dogs won’t be squeezing through or crawling under that.

  Most of the parking spaces on this level were filled. A majority of the cars were foreign luxury sedans. The one whose hood he’d severely dented was a current model year Mercedes. Great, he thought, as he weaved through the cars toward the building entrance, I can see it now. Black man attempts to enter fortified building full of rich white people, dies in a hail of bullets. Details at eleven. He hurried toward the glass doors. Beyond them he could see an expansive lobby. Looks empty, he thought, maybe they all panicked and got the hell out of Dodge. With any luck they forgot to lock up on their way out. He was about ten feet away from the door when he saw movement in the lobby, multiple figures moving erratically. He stopped short. The lobby was dark, so the figures weren’t clearly visible, just shadowy silhouettes. Two of the silhouettes were in the shape of people pointing guns and they were moving toward him very quickly. “Aww shit,” he said. He put one hand over his head as the figures burst through the doors and into the breezeway. One was short and fat. The other was a little taller and stocky. They both looked scared.

  “Put both your hands up boy!” the short fat one said. He had a pistol pointed at Ray’s head.

  “I can’t!” Ray said, “My left arm is injured. I can’t lift it.”

  “Do what he says boy or I’m gonna put a hole in you,” the other man demanded. He had what looked to Ray like a bolt-action hunting rifle.

  Ray tried to keep his voice calm. “Like I said, I can’t lift my left arm. It’s paralyzed. Trust me, if I could lift it, I would. I don’t want to get shot.”

  “As long as you do what you’re told boy, you might live,” said the fat man, “Now, I’m gonna need you to back up a ways.”

  Ray took several steps backward without looking away from the men holding the guns or lowering his hand.

  “Emma! Tommy!” the fat man called out, “Come on out, we got things under control. That’s far enough boy. Stop right there.”

  Ray stopped moving. He was standing at the intersection of two lanes. To his right, the lane merged with a ramp that led to the garage upper level. To his left was the exit lane. It ended at the gate that was chained closed. An elderly woman with extremely tall hair and a boyish looking young man walked out of the building and stood behind the fat man.

  “Is it safe?” the woman asked the fat man.

  “Yes Emma, it’s safe,” the fat man said, “we got him covered. Go on now, git to the truck. It’s parked right over there.” The fat man tossed a keyring at the other gunman, “Frank, go load the truck. I’ll take care of this thug.”

  “Hey fellas,” Ray said, “I’m the good guy here! I’m not the one you have to worry about.”

  The fat man took a step closer to Ray and held his gun a little higher. “I don’t remember asking you to talk boy. You know, I am well within my rights to shoot you where you stand. You're trespassing on private property. You understand that, right boy?”

  “Look mister, there’s some serious shit going on out here.” Ray shifted uncomfortably. “Can I put my hand down, please?”

  Elisha nodded. “Yeah, go ahead, but slow. No sudden moves, ya hear?”

  “Ok,” Ray lowered his arm. “Mister, I know you don’t have any reason to believe me but we ain’t safe out here in the open. I got chased over here by something—I’m not even sure what it was—something half human.”

  “You sure it wasn’t one of those A-rabs? Radio says they the ones who set off the bomb.”

  “Huh?” Ray said, then shook his head. “Hell no man! This was no Arab. This thing I saw sort of looked like a human being but all stretched out. I mean, the thing was even wearing a bikini! I know that sounds messed up but that’s the truth.”

  “Boy, you sure you not on that, uh, what you people call it? Crack? Yeah, crack, that’s it. You sure you not high on those drugs? Cause I hate to tell ya boy, you sound crazy.”

  “I am not crazy! I’m serious! That thing's coming and we're gonna be in big trouble if we're still standing in this parking garage when it gets here!” Ray took a couple of steps toward Elisha. He used his right hand to lift up his limp left arm. “Look at my arm! That thing was somehow controlling a pack of wild dogs and it sic’d them on me. One of them bit me on the arm. Look at it man! Have you ever seen a dog bite do this?”

  Elisha jumped backward. “Now you just stay right there boy! Don’t make me put a bullet in ya!”

  “Hey Elisha!” Frank yelled from three parking rows over. He was standing by the hood of a silver Ford F-350, near the gate. “We’re all packed up and ready to go.” He pointed at the gate. “The gate’s got a chain on it. We gonna need the key or some bolt cutters to get out.”

  “Frank! Frank!” Elisha yelled back, “Come over here and put your rifle on this boy while I go back up to the room and get the key from Jeremy. That crack has got him talking all kind of crazy.”

  Frank waved his hand in acknowledgement and began walking back toward Elisha.

  Ray cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Listen ok, just listen for one second. Your name’s Elisha, right? Mister Elisha, please listen to me. It ain’t a good idea for us to be out here. That thing is coming and I for one don’t want to be caught out in the open when it shows up.”

  “Boy, I only got five very valuable rounds left in this thing, but I’m about to use one of them on you if you don’t shut the hell up.”

  Ray was about to protest when he heard a growl echo through the garage.

  “What in tarnation..?” mumbled Elisha.

  There was a dog at the entrance gate. Then another appeared from behind the wall. Then another.

  “Aww shit!” Ray said, “I told you! I told you it was coming! Please, let me go inside! Please!”

  Frank turned, saw the dogs, and raised his rifle. “Elisha, you see this?” he shouted.

  “Yeah yeah,” Elisha said, craning his neck to get a good look at the gate, “I see’em. Don’t pay them no mind. They just strays. Probably looking for a meal.”

  “Think if I shoot one the others will scatter? I don’t want them rushing us when we take the chain off the gate.”

  “The hell if I know. They’re probably hungry and scared. Makes them unpredictable.”

  More dogs appeared at the gate. Now there were at least ten of them. They paced back and forth along the width of the gate, snarling, with teeth bared.

  “There’s a bunch of them,” Frank said, “and they don’t look scared. I’m gonna shoot one and scare’em off.” He started to walk closer to the gate.

  “No!” Ray said, “Are you nuts? If all those dogs are here that thing’s gotta be here too. I’m sorry but I’m outta here. Mister Elisha, you gonna have to shoot me to keep me from going into the building.”

  Elisha gave Ray a quizzical look then raised his gun with both hands. “Then I will shoot you dead, boy.”

  “What’d he say?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t pay this boy no mind. If you gonna shoot one of them mutts then go ahead and do it so we can be on our way.”

  Frank walked toward the dogs until he was no more than five feet from the gate. The dogs quieted down as he approached and stopped pacing. “Hey Elisha! You seeing this,” he said, grinning, “these mutts act like they waiting on me to throw them a piece of meat or something.” He held the rifle up to his face and braced the stock against his shoulder. “Ok,” he whispered, “which one of you ugly fucks wants to
go to doggie heaven?” He peered down the rifle’s iron sight. The dogs stared back at him, unmoving. “Alright then, I guess all ya’ll want to meet doggie Jesus.” He swung the rifle toward the largest dog in the pack, a mangy Doberman Pinscher. He aimed for meaty part of the dog’s chest; between the front legs, right below the neck. “Bye bye Fido,” he whispered, and then pulled the trigger. The gun rocked back and the sound boomed off the parking garage’s concrete walls. The dog exhaled a short yelp and was thrown backward in a shower of blood and hair. The other dogs scattered, fanning out in all directions away from the bloody corpse of the Doberman Pinscher. “Woo hoo!” Frank hollered, “Elisha, did you see that? That there was something else!”

  Elisha did see it, and he was about to comment on his cousin Frank’s skill with a long gun, when he saw something else. It was crouched on top of the wall to the left of the gate, behind and to the right of his cousin Frank.

  “F-F-Frank!” Elisha shouted, “Look out!”

  Frank, his back to the wall, heard Elisha's warning but turned much too late to prevent what happened next. The thing leapt off the wall, landed next to Frank, then swiped him across the head and neck with such force that he was lifted off the ground and thrown several feet through the air.

  “Jesus Christ!” Elisha said, and swung his gun around, took aim, and fired a shot at the thing’s torso. The windshield of a BMW sedan parked 3 feet from where the thing was standing exploded into small fragments. He’d missed.

  Ray saw the thing too. That’s the one that came across the bayou, he thought as he sprinted toward the big glass double doors. God, that thing is barely human!

  Frank was still conscious. He was lying on his back, one eye staring up at the gray concrete ceiling. His right eye wasn’t working. He could feel broken teeth rolling around inside his mouth like loose marbles. What the fuck hit me? he thought. The pain he felt on the right side of his head was excruciating and he couldn’t hear anything other than a loud, constant ringing in both ears. He tried to open his mouth to breath but his tongue had swollen, blocking his airway. He drew air in from his nose, sucking blood into his lungs which his body immediately rejected, forcing a thick wad of blood and mucus to be expelled onto to his lips and chin. Oh fuck! he thought, and tried to wipe the muck off of his face. That’s when he realized that he couldn’t move or feel anything below his neck. Oh fuck, I can’t move! I’m paralyzed! He tried to roll his head to the side. It moved a little but caused him great pain. He was having trouble breathing. His tongue felt like someone had stuffed a softball down his throat. Inhaling through his nose drew blood into his sinuses and down his windpipe; he was drowning in his own blood. Oh god, I don’t wanna die! Something moved in his peripheral vision. The light darkened around him as it approached. Elisha, is that you? Elisha! Do something! I can’t breathe! Help me!

  The monster loomed over him.

  It was a hideous thing. It had a wild mane of black hair, soot-black skin, and pointed, interlocking teeth, so large that its lips could not contain them. The beast bent down and licked the air above Frank’s face with a long, whip-like tongue; a thick, pointed rope of muscle almost as black as its skin. Saliva from its mouth dripped onto Frank’s cheek, causing his skin to immediately blister. Frank’s remaining eye went wide with pain and fear. No! God help me! It was the last thought Frank Jenkins would have before the beast took him.

  As his dying brain attempted one last scream, the last of the air in his lungs jettisoned a stream of mucus and blood out his nose. He convulsed as his heart, kicked into high gear from the adrenaline coursing through his veins, went into cardiac arrest, then quit, mercifully ending his life. The beast jerked back from the spray of Frank’s bodily fluids and a loud, angry hiss escaped from between its teeth. It bent over and yanked Frank’s upper body off the ground, its talons trenching deep wounds in Frank’s chest as it gathered the cloth of his shirt in its hand. It walked slowly toward the gate, dragging Frank’s lifeless body with it.

  Elisha ran toward the thing and crouched behind a parked car, about thirty feet from where Frank was lying on the ground. “Frank!” he called out, “You alright? Can you hear me?” There was no response from Frank, but he did hear something, a hissing sound, like air escaping from a tire. He was sure it was that thing making the noise but he was too afraid to look, afraid to peek over the hood of the car and give away his position. Stop being such a chickenshit Elisha! he scolded himself, That thing is doing who knows what to Frank and here you are, a man with a gun, not doing shit about it! He breathed rapidly through his mouth, to keep from hyperventilating. He could feel his heart tightening in his chest. Stay calm Elisha, he told himself, it’s just like at the range. You have four rounds left, just hold the gun steady, aim, and squeeze the trigger. You can do it. Just like at the range. He rose slowly, the gun visibly shaking in his hands.

  30

  Thomas closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten in his head. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis—

  “Are you listening to me Tommy?” Emma asked.

  “Yes Auntie, I’m listening.”

  “Then look like you’re paying attention young man!” she snapped.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, sighing. He opened his eyes. He and his Aunt Emma were sitting in the rear seat of Uncle Elisha’s pickup. Cousin Frank had just hopped out of the truck to go tell his uncle that they were ready to leave. Thomas had long ago stopped praying that his Aunt Emma wouldn’t feel compelled to fill every moment of silence with the sound of her own voice, so as soon as Frank slammed the door shut, imprisoning him with her in the truck’s nearly soundproof interior, he braced himself for one of her infamous lectures.

  “Like I was saying, it’s important that you step up and pull your own weight, so to speak. Your Uncle Elisha is concerned about you Tommy. He thinks you’re going to be a liability. He thinks you’re not behaving like the man I know you are.”

  “Auntie, I just shot someone! What else does he want from me? What does he expect me to do, grab my trusty hunting knife and build him a thatched hut out of twigs and paper bags? I mean, I killed a guy! I killed him because I wasn’t thinking and I was scared. If Uncle Elisha and cousin Frank think this situation is going to turn me into some sort of rugged survivalist they’re sorely mistaken. They enjoy tromping around in the woods, shooting things, pretending to be para-military militia. That is not who I am or ever want to be. Besides, this is not the zombie apocalypse we’re dealing with here. This is a simple natural or manmade disaster that the government will get their arms around eventually and clean up.”

  Emma sighed and patted Thomas softly on the thigh. “You shot that chinaman because he was sick and was going to hurt your uncle. You remember that. You did the right thing.”

  “Auntie, I didn’t even aim the gun. I was so scared I almost shot Uncle Elisha in the throat. Would you still be singing my praises if that happened?”

  Emma glanced at him with a smirk on her lips. “Well…” she said, and shrugged her shoulders.

  A few seconds of silence passed and then they both burst out laughing.

  “Auntie,” Thomas said still trying to reign in his giggles, “you can be one stone cold...uh...woman.”

  “It’s ok to say bitch Tommy. Your auntie is fully aware of how others perceive her. Your grandfather, bless his everlasting soul, did not raise his children to be weak.”

  Thomas’ smile faded. “Well, except my father, right? He was the weak one.”

  “Tommy, your father was a Ernest Hemingway, Teddy Roosevelt type of man. A real man’s man. But like most men, they have their moments of weakness. Unfortunately, in his moment he allowed himself to be corrupted by the siren song of a wretched and evil woman.”

  “My mother.”

  “Yes, your mother. May God forgive her soul. We were all fooled by her. There was no way we could have known she was part of a secret terrorist organization hellbent on destroying the United States. You and your poor father were just pawns in her much la
rger, more sinister plan.”

  Thomas had played his Aunt Emma’s account of his mother’s deception over and over again in his head since he was a little boy. His mother had come to the United States, crossing the Mexican border as an illegal immigrant, intent on finding an American man to marry and starting a family. But it was all an elaborate cover, a ruse to hide her real plan; she and her co-conspirators planned and executed the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. According to his aunt, his mother was never named as an actual participant in the attack but that was only because her father, his grandfather, pleaded with the authorities to keep her name out of the headlines, to avoid any retribution by a vengeful public on his son and grandson. His aunt said his father never recovered emotionally from the lie perpetrated by his wife and he subsequently took his own life about a year later. His mother apparently alluded authorities and fled the country, re-crossing the Mexican border and disappearing into the jungles of South America.