by Alan Spencer
“Enough to know he was the reason you became a cop, and later, a detective. I have interview notes when you were given your job as a police officer.”
Boyd heard the sound of pages being turned.
“Ah, this is cute.” He now talked like a six year old. “It says you wanted to be the kid of a cop that visited schools and warned kids not to take drugs or join gangs. You were old enough to see your father give a talk at your school before he passed on. It warms the heart to hear that, Mr. Broman."
“What will be warm will be your blood on my fist, dickhead!"
“Okay, enough buddy-buddy talk, I got it. You don't like me, so calm down and hear me out. I’m offering you your life back. That's the deal. Besides, Hayden needs to be questioned double quick. He could have more undiscovered bodies that we don’t know about, and that’s something you can care about, Mr. Broman. You helped arrest him. You pulled night watch at the strip clubs, and didn’t Hayden shoot you in the ribs? Shattered two of them on impact, and you still were able to put him in cuffs, and deliver him to the station. You're one tough S.O.B."
The questions remained: why was Hayden here, and why couldn’t they track him down themselves? They had cameras, the facility, the barbed gates, and men in the towers surveying the area.
“You’re not telling me everything.”
“And so it is, Mr. Broman. Take it or leave it, your only option is compliance. The dead man outside, sure, there’s more of them. You can handle it. I can’t waste resources on tracking a man down like Hayden, and besides, your precinct wanted you to be set free. You were the district attorney’s example to other cops not to play hero off-duty, and now’s your chance to escape prison. Just apprehend Hayden.”
“You’re lying to me. If the precinct wanted me free, I wouldn’t have been convicted of that bullshit charge in the first place.”
“Believe what you want. You have no choice.”
Boyd concentrated on what he needed to understand to survive. The man had a point. Boyd didn’t have a choice.
“What do I do with Hayden when I find him? How big is this place? It's going to take time to find him.”
“Don’t you worry about that. You'll figure it out. You're a smart guy. Arrest Hayden, take him alive, and bring him to the gate you were dropped off at. We’ll be watching and waiting for your arrival. Make it fast. And watch your back.”
The man hung up.
Boyd stared at the phone and waited for a dial tone to call an outside number. The line was dead. No noise, it was as if someone had pulled the plug the moment the other side ended the conversation. Whatever he was forced into, he was trapped. And until he captured Hayden, there was no other option but to comply.
Boyd's Memories
"I hear they might be promoting you to lead detective, wink wink."
Boyd laughed. "You're not supposed to say 'wink wink,' are you?"
"That's how impressive you are. I get to actually say it."
Boyd listened to Joey Louis, his childhood friend and fellow detective at his precinct, rattle on about Boyd's future prospects as the party in his honor continued. Boyd had returned from the hospital just yesterday, recovering from the twin gunshot wounds to the ribs he received from Hayden Grubaugh's unregistered .45 Messingham pistol.
The doctor had asked Boyd if he wanted to keep the slugs, post-removal. "You cops like souvenirs. Put it in a jar on your mantle."
Boyd declined, deciding not to give Karen, his wife, another reminder of how dangerous his job could be.
Standing there in Boyd's living room, over twenty people from the precinct were enjoying cake and ice cream. People chatted about the Pittsburgh Alley Cannibal, the man Boyd had put behind bars. Karen was busy replenishing guest's longneck beers with fresh ones. His children were at Karen's sister's house. Karen wanted to celebrate his accomplishment, but talk of cannibalism and murder wasn't kid friendly.
Boyd watched his wife work her way through the throng of blue and white balloons and the table of gifts to the backyard. She disappeared again on another hostess errand, busily cooking hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill.
Joey asked, "How was it meeting the mayor? I hear he's a blunt kind-of-guy."
Boyd tipped back the bottle in his hand and filled his mouth with beer. "Ferman shook my hand, while I was still in the recovery ward. I wish I could've been better dressed; the hospital gown isn't exactly snazzy. It's good he didn't come in when I had my back turned. He would've had the best view of my ass. I mean everything. The slopes, and grassy knolls, and even the profile of my balls. No, no, he was a nice guy. Ferman said he was grateful, and quoting Ferman, 'That son-of-a-bitch is finally off the streets and on his way to the death chair. The city of Pittsburgh can finally sleep with both eyes closed again.'"
Joey agreed. "I think everybody in the room shares those same sentiments. Let the creepy grease ball fry."
"Yeah, but there's a price to pay. The investigation lasted so long. I missed a lot of time with Karen and the kids going on stakeouts to nudie clubs, and watching the parking lots for anybody looking like a cannibal killer pervert. Everybody marching in and out of Club 87, or The Red Closet, or half the other crack jack strip joints in that area, all fit that cannibal's profile."
"Hey, it's over," Joey said. "I'm just glad you're okay, Boyd."
It was every cop's worst nightmare not only being shot at, but to actually take a hit. Karen feared for his life from the beginning of participating in a cannibal killer stakeout, but this had been the first time he'd been wounded on duty. She hadn't slept soundly for a week after it happened, and it showed. Boyd was pleased to see Karen's disposition had changed, for the positive.
Boyd looked on at Karen through the backyard window. She was at the grill flipping burgers.
"I hope Karen won't fear for my safety from now on."
"I've been shot before," Joey said, "and let me tell you, they move on in good time. The first incident is always the hardest. Wives think everybody's gunning for you after that, but once you come home again, and again, and again, without a scratch, life goes on. Trust me."
The party picked up.
Boyd's co-worker Andrew Hardy shook his hand, and so did Nora Johnson, and Kim Davis.
"Damn fine job."
"Way to bust that psycho's ass. One less psycho to deal with. You really took the fork out of that cannibal's hands."
"Unless the courts fuck us over with an insanity plea."
"The way people have gone to bed early every night for the past four months, they'll make sure justice is served. That grease ball is fried."
"It's not everyday a cannibal killer makes the headlines. Wasn't Dahmer the last sicko to make the news like that? Bath salts ain't got shit on Grubaugh."
"Dahmer? Dahmer ain't no Hayden Grubaugh, that's for goddamn certain! Hayden would scare the shit and piss out of Dahmer."
The three moved on, leaving Boyd and Joey alone.
Boyd couldn't help but ask Joey once more, "You really think I'll make lead detective?"
Joey smiled. "We'll see, buddy, we'll see."
Attack!
Boyd checked the clip in the Glock.
The driver gave him a half-loaded gun.
The dead man from outside punched a hole through the front door and twisted the knob. The intruder forced open the door and stomped into the room. The creature had both arms again. The one he’d shot previously was crooked, yet able to function. The fingers tightened together, forming a greasy fist.
The wretched smell attacked Boyd as putrid perfume. He noted the organs through the patchy skin were kept firmly in place by staples, stitches, and reams of nylon cord.
What the fuck?
Rib bones protruded from the torso. Some were larger than others, ranging from ivory white, to rust-orange. The face was a patchwork of skin grafts from black, white, and Hispanic flesh. More stitches and staples created steel tracks along its skeletal features. Small patches of skull were visible through tufts of ha
ir. The tufts were different colors. The strands were matted and oily. Boyd compared the dead man to a poorly salvaged car. It couldn’t be real, but when Boyd gagged against the dead man’s stench, the fact couldn’t be denied.
Boyd took aim to the head. A dangerous assailant—a dead assailant in this case—couldn’t be reckoned with, Boyd had learned through police training. He squeezed the trigger.
The bullet shattered the left lobe of the skull. Instead of brains and blood, shards of bone exploded. The figure was unaffected by the damage. Beneath the skin, a housing of extra bones protected the brain. The bones had strangely been nailed in place.
Boyd reserved his bullets and rushed down the hall. The dead man was at his back in fast pursuit. Hurrying out the back exit, Boyd sprinted through a parking lot and ran full speed towards a diner. Behind the broken slats of windows and boarded up entries, Boyd sensed movements from within the darkened nooks. From the pharmacy, post office, and bowling alley, the shapes of people materialized as if aroused from their hideaways. There had to be several dozen of them, and increasing.
Boyd was forced to make a decision. The Glock couldn’t kill them. No building was clear to enter, so his only escape would be in the gutter. It wasn't the best plan, but that was the best he could do.
Doubling his speed, Boyd ducked into the gutter's opening uncertain of what could be waiting below. It was a better alternative than facing the mob of dead beings slowly encroaching on him.
Slipping through the opening, Boyd splashed into ice-cold water below. The water level in the sewer was up to his knees. A light from a plastic fixture covered in mold shed green light.
The blather and shrieks of many echoed down to him.
They were incoming.
He wouldn't be safe for long.
Boyd sloshed through the water. The stream was a brown-green sludge. A gangrene odor thickened the air. The tunnel stank like a wound gone septic. An overhead walkway was located around the turn of a corner. He climbed up the short ladder and was able to flee faster. To where, Boyd was clueless.
The way became darker. New splashing of feet echoed in the tunnel, what was mixed with shouts and blood-curdling shrieks. He fled even faster. Before he made it far, something wet curled around his ankle. It tried to yank him down into the water below the walkway. It was a skeletal hand. Boyd kicked it away. The fingers unhinged and broke into pieces.
Boyd narrowed his focus on what struggled to stay afloat in the water. A skeleton frame, a piece of moving flotsam and jetsam, shifted. The mandible and jaw clicked to mimic sound, but there was no throat, tongue, muscle tissue, or skin to create a body. It reminded him of the skeleton in his high school anatomy class, except this time, it was missing its legs.
What enabled it to function, Boyd wondered, as he hauled ass away from the awful thing.
The hordes of monstrous taunts were coming even closer. Boyd scanned the wall for a way out, or a place to hide.
He faced a dead end.
Turning around, the shadows were contorted by the looming shapes conspiring to overtake him. Boyd frantically double-checked his options. He located a step-ladder leading back up to the street.
He cleared the steps and nearly lost his footing when he shoved the manhole upwards. Crawling topside, he was now in a different part of town. He was many blocks away from the diner and the station. A convenience store and a string of restaurants were nearby. An unmarked three-story building was located to the far left of him, what served as a border between the residential area and town center.
One restaurant in particular caught his attention, because of the acrid smoke that exuded from the chimney. At Mariatelli’s Restaurant, the windows were boarded up like everywhere else. The outdoor dining area was decorated with umbrella-draped tables. The burnt remains of corpses were sitting in the chairs. Black birds pecked at the bodies, stealing morsels. The bodies were damaged beyond recognition and rendered to dark carrion. They had been tied in place with metal wire. The bodies were barely alive. They were shifting to resist while others gave up caring about the winged assassins who feasted on them.
The smoke billowing from the chimney reeked of cooking flesh.
It has to be Hayden inside that place.
Boyd rushed to the restaurant. The front doors were locked. The windows were secure with wooden planks, tables, and chairs. The side entrance and the back door were also locked.
No way inside.
He could climb up top to the roof and find an alternative access, he thought. The problem, the time to plan a break-in had lapsed.
The manhole rattled onto the street.
Hunched, conspiring, contorting bodies poured into the street.
In seconds, they’d reach him.
Boyd fled to the closest place that was safe.
The three story building.
The front entrance was chained up from the outside. Franticly searching, he checked the windows along the east side of the building. One of them was open. Body crawled in, and shortly afterwards, the streets filled up with the violent dead.
Meet Hayden Grubaugh
Smoking the flesh was the best way to prepare human meat. That's what Hayden Grubaugh had learned from his mentor, Richard Massy. Richard was his good friend and next-door neighbor in Hayden's apartment complex before being deported inside the perimeter. That period of his life felt so long ago. Only surviving inside this place mattered anymore, as did fighting for the culinary cause of preparing human meat.
Human meat meant everything to Hayden.
Vegetable oil ruined the natural fatty tissues already in the human body, Richard had also taught Hayden. Richard's words rang true in the cannibal's mind like he'd just heard it yesterday.
Using the wrong oils to prepare meat is unacceptable. It'd be like eating a hamburger dipped in peanut oil. Besides, there’s better ways to splurge the taste buds than using Americanized recipes. You’re not a stay-at-home mom. You’re an aficionado, Hayden. Eat like a God.
Hayden stood in the empty kitchen of Mariatelli’s Restaurant with a cleaver clasped in his beefy hand. A blood stained apron tightly hugged his rotund midsection. The apron read: Kiss Me, I’m Italian.
Always have your garnishes and spices ready before preparation. And wash those hands, Hayden. Use common sense. You wouldn't believe people these days.
“The sauce comes next,” Hayden sang under his breath. “My sauce is always the best.”
Richard's voice scolded Hayden. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Nobody likes arrogance.
The man taught Hayden many things during their ten-year friendship. Richard had learned his cooking techniques from his father. His father lived in Russia when the region was suffering from the harsh affects of The Cold War. They ate human flesh because it was economically sound. The price of meats was outrageous, even on the street markets. Killing for meat became a lucrative trade among the Russian vendor markets. Richard's father became a bloodthirsty butcher, both in the name of economics, and his deadly pallet.
Hayden selected a combination of spices and mixed them all into a large sauce pan. He then added a splash of bottled lemon juice for zest.
The sauce was complete.
Don’t forget the red wine, Hayden. It’s good for the heart and keeps the flavor robust.
Hayden did so, pouring a dash of red wine into the pan.
“Ah, now the fun part. You're next, Madame."
Hayden was speaking to the naked woman strapped to the table top with rope. Her head was secured in a vice. There was no chance of escape unless she wanted to rip her head off first. And sometimes they did.
Sever the arms and legs from the torso. The torso’s your soft spot filled with the most meat. The organs can be used for soup, but more importantly, the tender meat comes from the ribs. So succulent.
Hayden lifted the cleaver, leveled the edge, and the blade sliced through the shoulder with a driving hammer's force. The limb flopped onto the ground, the arms and muscles flexing and bendi
ng to somehow return itself to the body. Hayden ground the heel of his boot into the forearm to anchor it down.
“Now hold still.”
The woman gagged on her tongue, “Glack-aaack-aaack-aaack."
Hayden hacked off her legs from the hips, taking six swings apiece. When they collapsed onto the floor, the legs kicked and flailed. They tried, and failed, to rise up into a standing position. Blood splashed from the gangly wounds. That meant blood wasted; the blood he could’ve used for sauce.
Determined to keep the meal cooking despite the mistake he made, Hayden wrenched out the woman's internal organs by hand and slopped them onto a cooking sheet. There were coils and coils of long and small intestines, many of them of varying sizes that didn’t belong to the woman. They had also been stitched into one another, like unending snakes. She’d borrowed them from other, healthier bodies. That’s what they did to survive, and the process by which they fashioned new bones and tissues to their bodies was amazing, if not startling.
Hayden rendered free her ribs with pinch clamps and a hammer. He cracked them like lobster legs, and then heaped them onto another cooking sheet. He'd bake them into the oven at 450 degrees for thirty minutes. Next, Hayden lobbed off the corpse’s breasts by dragging his sharpest blade against the soft mounds. The breast flesh gave like tissue paper. They were checkered with the colors of white, tan, and green. The nipples, the softest morsel, were like blackened Hershey’s kisses. Hayden ate the nipples raw, licking them up off of his knife.
He used a hacksaw next, sawing her head from the neck. He had to press both palms down against the dull edge to break through the brainstem/spinal connection. Foam and crimson dribbled from both corners of the mad corpse woman's lips upon the decapitation.
“SLACK—SLACK—AAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!”
Her legs had crawled across the kitchen leaving a glistening red trail behind.
“Damn it! I've had enough. You've been nothing but difficult, you dead bitch. You’re going into the freezer. I can’t do anything with you bastards after I cut you up. You keep moving and hiding. I'm going to eat you, one way or the other."