by Ronald Kelly
There was some looting, but only of what was left in the Shop-Rite and the five and dime store. George Pendergast sat in the doorway of the True-Value with a twelve-gauge shotgun across his knees and a dour look that dared folks to just try something. Everyone who passed by was smart enough to leave him and his business alone. No one seemed concerned with the pet shop or Sam’s fix-it shop, either. Food and gas seemed to be the most valuable commodities now and he and Millie had neither.
Later that evening, Sam went inside for the night. He powered up the generator and turned on the television. Nothing was on the air, not even a station signal. There was only a rushing bee swarm of static. He tried the radio. Half the stations were also gone. The other half had nothing but Emergency Broadcasting information, which played repetitively over and over again.
Funny thing, the internet was still up and working, though. Sam chuckled humorlessly as he sat at his old rolltop desk and browsed. Just went to show what was important in folks’ lives these days. Out of curiosity, Sam Googled a certain subject, found the information he was looking for, and saved it on his hard drive, although he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure what had possessed him to do so.
He turned off his generator and lay on his bed in the dark for a long time before falling to sleep. Last night, the sound of strangers milling in the street had echoed through his walls for a long time; walking, arguing, shouting. Tonight, Maple Avenue was strangely silent. The quiet didn’t comfort him, however. If anything it filled him with a sense of deep dread he couldn’t quite identify.
Something bad was about to happen. Something that would send the little town of Watkins Glen spiraling toward degradation and ruin. Sam could feel it in his arthritic bones like a dark and creeping cancer firmly taking hold.
Four days later, on July 10th, Sam discovered that he had been right.
Around noon, the Devil rode down the center of Maple Avenue in a coal black Mustang.
The car was fresh off the sales lot. The itemized sales sticker was still on the rear left window and the dealership owner’s brains were still splattered across the hood. The Ford was surrounded on both sides by a motley procession of tattooed men on Harleys and four-wheelers. Men who had done evil in their lifetime – robbery, rape, murder – and served hard time for it. Sam wasn’t too savvy about such things, but it wasn’t difficult to identify their bodily markings as homemade prison tattoos.
At the end of the line was a red Dodge Ram pickup driven by a chubby redneck wearing a Crimson Tide t-shirt and a green John Deere baseball cap. There was a large cage constructed of steel bars and chain-link fence in the bed. Inside the cage were three of the meanest and hungriest-looking Pit Bull Terriers that ever breathed life. They growled and barked, jumping at the sides of their makeshift pen and biting at the metal links with yellowed fangs.
Sam sat in his rocker, the Winchester lying across his knees, his face impassive, as they came from the south and braked to a halt directly in front of Millie’s Pet Shop. The men stretched wearily and engaged the kickstands of their bikes. Dangerous eyes – devoid of mercy or conscious – surveyed the heart of Watkins Glen with mild interest. The black Mustang sat and idled for a moment or two, its powerful V-8 rumbling beneath the gore-splattered hood. Then the driver’s door opened and a man stepped out.
The old man recognized him at once. Not many in the state of Alabama – or the world for that matter – was ignorant of the tall, muscular man with the shaved head, black mustache and goatee, and the elaborate tattoo of a snarling Rottweiler dog that covered his chest, and abdomen.
He called himself Rott and he was the most prolific serial killer in American history. His dark exploits had dominated the news media after his capture and conviction in 2008: the rape, the murder, the senseless mutilation and wanton cannibalism. He had four hundred and fifty confirmed victims and another hundred and forty under investigation. Rott’s grinning face – with his teeth filed to jagged points and those light-pupiled eyes that resembled tiny eyeballs within eyeballs – had graced the covers of Newsweek and Time, as well as nearly every tabloid and legitimate newspaper around the globe. From what had been uncovered at his trial – which had stretched a good four months from start to finish – Rott had performed his abominations and satisfied his dark desire for pain, torment, and human flesh for nearly twelve years before finally getting caught. His grisly specialty had been to dismember his victims while they were still alive, raping and feasting upon their bodies as they slowly bled to death.
If anyone knew Rott’s true name or identity it had been forgotten long ago. In a USA Today poll, Rott’s leering face was voted number four as the most visually-identifiable person in world history, just behind George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Jesus Christ.
As far as Sam knew, Rott had been confined to Death Row at Alabama’s notorious Holman Penitentiary near Atmore, a few miles from the Florida state line. Apparently the Burn had done a number on the correction facility’s elaborate security system and Rott had escaped, bringing an army of murdering brutes with him.
What Sam wondered was why he had gone north, instead of heading south for the Sunshine State? Exactly what had sent the New Satan, as he was called, heading their way?
Rott left the car and strutted around the front. He was bare-chested, to show off his trademark tattoo, and he wore jeans and black cowboy boots with pointed toes. On a silver-studded belt he wore his weapon of preference; a thick-bladed meat cleaver in a hand-made holster.
“Yeah, this is it,” Rott said. As he spread his brawny arms and stretched, the face of the black dog on his chest expanded, its slavering maul seeming to grow broader and more vicious. “This is the place.”
The passenger door of the Mustang opened and a lean black man wearing round eyeglasses and an orange prison jumpsuit climbed out. Sam recognized him, too, although his fame was of a different notoriety than Rott’s. The young man was named Clarence “Pickpocket” Jefferson. In another life he had been a government worker for the state of Alabama, a computer programmer, among other things. When he had been fired from his position for some undisclosed indiscretion, Jefferson had retaliated by hacking into the computer systems of every bank in the state and siphoning off over 45 million dollars from several thousand accounts before the FBI apprehended him. Among his victims was the governor of Alabama, who lost every penny he had to Jefferson’s money-sucking scheme. None of the lost funds had ever been located.
Sam wondered what a white-collar conman was doing hooked up with a blue-collar killer like Rott. But, on second thought, the pairing seemed completely natural. A man like Rott needed someone with a superior brain to perform difficult tasks for him, like accessing gasoline past the restraints of electronic pumps, as well as dozens of other things that the New Satan couldn’t possibly figure out on his own.
Sitting there watching that band of dangerous men, Sam knew it wouldn’t be long before things in Watkins Glen went completely to hell, making the cold-blooded murder of John the Accountant seem like a slap on the wrist. He had no idea it would happen so quickly and with such fury.
A big, bearded fellow with spider webs tattooed on his elbows climbed off his Harley and looked around in distaste. “Okay… so where the hell’s this feast you promised, Rott? It’s been three days since we’ve had a bite to eat and I’m starving!”
“You’re standing in front of it, Calhoun,” Rott told him.
The burly con looked around and scowled. “A pet shop? Are you shitting me? You think gerbils and parakeets are gonna satisfy a man like me?”
Rott ignored him and turned toward Jefferson. “Pickpocket, take some men to the hardware store over yonder and bring out some propane grills. We’re gonna have us a hellacious barbeque.”
Calhoun was furious. “Hey, slick! Don’t turn your back on me, you flesh-eating freak!”
Rott simply stood there, totally relaxed and at ease. His head cocked back an inch or so and he smiled that savage smile that the world knew so w
ell. Sam watched breathlessly as Rott’s hand moved swiftly to the holster on his belt, unsnapped the retaining strap, and drew the cleaver.
With a motion that was graceful – almost beautiful – in its execution, Rott whirled, bringing the heavy blade around in a wide, sweeping arch. The edge of the cleaver traveled to Calhoun’s throat and beyond, tunneling past skin, muscle, and bone, decapitating the man.
Well almost. A stubborn mat of tendons in the back of Calhoun’s neck refused to yield and the big man’s head flopped over his back and hung there, resting between his shoulder blades. Calhoun staggered around in a drunken circle, the arteries of his neck spouting a fountain of crimson and his windpipe whistling loudly as his lungs pumped out his last few breaths. The others backed up, giving the dead biker a wide berth. Finally, the strength drained out of him and he dropped to his knees. Calhoun remained like that for a long moment, then fell, chest-down, onto the asphalt of the street. His head remained in its unnatural position, its glassy eyes glaring skyward, still holding the anger and threat they had possessed thirty seconds before his untimely demise.
Lord have mercy! thought Sam. He felt the burn of bile rise into his throat, but instantly swallowed it. It wouldn’t do him a speck of good to throw up his shoe soles and draw the gang’s attention in his direction. So far, they hadn’t noticed him or had ignored him completely… and that was the way he preferred it.
“Okay, if any of you guys want some Calhoun steak, have at him,” said Rott. “He’s too damned nasty for me to sink my teeth into.”
None of his posse took him up on the offer, looking uncomfortable and pale in the face.
“Clarence, fetch those grills,” Rott told him. “We’ll go in and get the entrees.”
“Gotcha!” The lean black man snapped his fingers and three big fellows followed. One was a head taller than the others, with broad shoulders a yard wide, flowing blond hair, and the face of an Adonis. Sam recognized him, too. He was a pro wrestler for the WWE named the Alabama Hitman; a big bruiser of a villain in the arena, full of piss and vinegar, and known for crushing his opponents without mercy. Several weeks ago he had turned a particularly popular wrestler into a paraplegic with a suplex that had broken the man’s neck so loudly that the crack could be heard beyond the cheering crowd, outside the stadium.
As Rott and several of his men barged into Millie’s Pet Shop, Sam watched as Pickpocket and his trio marched down the sidewalk toward the True-Value. George Pendergast stood up from where he had been sitting in a folding lawn chair. “Now, y’all stand back!” he warned, leveling his shotgun. “You ain’t getting nothing of mine… you hear me?”
Just let ’em have it, George, Sam thought. Give them the grills and anything else they want. These fellas aren’t to be trifled with.
The look on Pendergast’s face as they advanced told Sam that he suddenly considered the same thing. But it was too late. The Hitman barreled forward and, grabbing hold of the barrel of the twelve-gauge, yanked it out of the storeowner’s hands. George attempted to retreat, but he had his back to the front window. The wrestler beat the man to death with the butt of his own weapon, hammering away at his head until the walnut stock splintered in two and George Pendergast’s blood and brains splattered across the sidewalk and into the street.
Sam closed his eyes, feeling unsteady. God, please stop this. Let them have their damned lunch and be on their way. But he knew that it wouldn’t be that simple. The expression in Rott’s face had told him that he intended to stick around for a while.
The old man opened his eyes when he heard Millie scream. He looked across the street to see Rott and the others leaving the pet shop, carrying several kittens and puppies by their collars. Millie was dancing around them in hysteria, her eyes wild and tearful. “No, please! You mustn’t. You can’t do such a horrible thing!”
Rott ignored her. He brought a good-sized German Sheppard pup to the hood of the Mustang, drew his cleaver, and began to hack it up. The dog’s head dropped to the street first, rolling beneath the souped-up Ford, then its tail and legs followed. Rott chuckled as blood pulsated out of the ugly wounds, bathing his hands and arms in warm, wet gore.
Millie screamed long and loud, over and over again. She couldn’t have been more horrified if they had slaughtered her own flesh-and-blood child before her eyes. Taking leave of her good sense, the woman leapt at the murderer and tore at his triceps with her fingernails
“Aw, shut the hell up, lady!” growled Rott, shoving her away forcefully.
Millie stumbled and lost her footing. She fell backward and the rear of her skull collided with the top of one of Maple Avenue’s four fire plugs. The release bolt punched through the bone with a sickening crunch.
As the spike of the plug burrowed into her brain, Millie bucked and flailed. Once she got her feet underneath her, as if trying to stand up. But the bolt held fast and she failed to pull herself loose.
It was at that moment that Sam Wheeler could no longer sit there. “Millie!” he yelled, standing up, the Winchester fisted in his liver-spotted hands.
Immediately, Rott lifted his eyes and stared at the old man in a way that seemed to freeze the course of time. “Un-uh, Pops. You take your popgun and sit your wrinkled ass back down in that chair. There ain’t nothing you can do for her now, anyway.”
Sam stood stone still and didn’t move. His hands clutched the old .44-40 so tightly that they hurt. But he knew Rott was right. He turned his eyes back to Millie. She was still and limp, still hanging awkwardly off the fire plug. There was no mistaking that she was dead.
Rott’s eyes continued to stare him down. “I said… sit… your…ass…down.”
Sam did as he was told. He dropped heavily back into the rocker, his heart pounding wildly in his shallow chest. I’m going to have a heart attack, right here and now! he thought to himself. But he knew there was little chance of that. He simply wasn’t that lucky.
“You behave yourself and maybe I’ll cook you up a hamster or something,” Rott told him and laughed.
Sam sat there helplessly and watched them skin and gut almost every animal in Millie’s Pet Shop. They even skewered goldfish on sticks and roasted them over the heat of the grills. The odor of roasting meat filled the air, causing Sam to feel lightheaded and nauseated.
The men had their feast, washing it down with beer they had stolen somewhere during their travels. Then, as night drew on, they split up, taking up residence in the pet shop and hardware store. Before Rott went in, he turned and gave Sam a toothy grin and a wink. “Good night, Pops.”
Sam sat there, feeling cold and exposed, despite the warmth and humidity of the July night. He sat there for an hour or two longer, until no light shown from within the neighboring buildings and only the sound of men’s snoring could be heard. Then he got up, went into the fix-it shop, and retrieved the Radio Flyer. Wearily, he pulled it across the street, toward the fire plug. Halfway there, he noticed one of the men – a skinny, little skin-headed guy with black swastikas etched up and down his arms – standing near the side of the pet shop, taking a piss. Sam’s sudden appearance startled him so that he pulled a 22-caliber pistol from his waistband and leveled it at him. “What the shit do you want, gramps?”
“I just want to bury my friends,” he told him, pulling the big red wagon up next to Millie’s lifeless body.
The man thought about for a moment. He looked nervously toward the pet shop, where he knew Rott slept. “Well, okay… but hurry it up, will you? If Rott finds out I let you go, he’ll kill me and have my liver for breakfast.”
“With fava beans and a nice chianti, I reckon.”
The little man scowled. “What?”
“Never mind,” said Sam. “I’ll be quick about it. I promise.”
Quietly, he went to work. First he dislodged Millie from the fire plug, which wasn’t an easy task. He strained and pried at her silvery head until it finally popped loose with a moist, sucking sound. Sam rolled her body into the bed of the red wagon,
then steered it down the sidewalk to where George Pendergast lay, his arms stiff, the fingers gnarled in rigor mortis. It took some doing, but he finally heaved him into the wagon, too. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to haul them off, their combined weight was so heavy. But they were both small in frame and two of them put together equaled one John the Accountant. With a grunt and a tug, Sam got the wagon rolling and continued to pull to keep the momentum going.
When he finally reached the church graveyard, Sam was exhausted. He dumped them in their intended places: George beside his wife, who died of a stroke five years ago, and Millie to the right of Sam’s own beloved. She and Estelle had been lifelong friends, so it was fitting that they rest beside each other in death. But when he finally caught his breath and prepared to dig, he discovered that he had forgotten his shovel. Too tired to go back and get it, he simply left them where they lay. He said a little prayer over them – the first prayer he had said in a very long time. After Estelle had passed on, leaving him alone and depressed, he and the good Lord hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms.
He rested a while longer. Then, taking the wagon, he started back for Maple Street. He entered the fix-it shop and collapsed on the little bed in the back room. A wind-up alarm clock on top of the rolltop read 12:47. Sam lay there for a long time, thinking of Millie and George… of Rott and the puppies and kittens, of the bloody skins littering the sidewalks of Maple Street like furry bags with nothing inside. When sleep finally claimed him, it was a fitful one.
That night he dreamt of the boy again.
Sam was running across the front yard to where the boy sat on the ground, crying and rubbing at his right hand.