by Kirk Alex
“Quit your fakin’, boy. You heard what I said, boy? Quit your fakin’.”
Wilburn Flinger went on with it. Biggs pulled the trigger all the same. An empty click was all that ensued. He did it again. It was no good. Gun was out of lead. There was no time and not enough light to reload.
“Lucky little bitch.”
Biggs glanced about on the ground. Reached for a shard of glass and was about to either carve Flinger’s eyes out or slash his throat, but Finger Lickin’ jerked about with such off-putting intensity, not unlike a spaz having a genuine fit or a geek undergoing pit therapy, that it caused Biggs to accidentally slice the tip of one of his own fingers off and hardly made it worth pursuing. Just too costly a task.
CHAPTER 599
Biggs shoved him off to the side. Dropped the glass. He swung his duffel in through the window, then slid on in himself into the bathroom with a loud gasp. He landed on the faucet counter, lost his balance and fell to the floor. Soon after the overhead panel slammed down, closing off the window.
Took him a moment to collect himself, get his bearings. He reached in his pocket for a fistful of bullets. Had risen to his knees when the hen flew in through the door, bounced against the top of his head and landed on the edge of the tub. Patience followed soon enough, colliding against him and knocking the bullets out of his hand.
No sooner was he able to pull himself up by holding onto the edge of the tub, did he get knocked back down and into the tub itself by Norbert Fimple, desperate to get at the chicken. Patience did what she could to dissuade Fimple, but all he had to do to get him off his back was shrug her off, and down she went.
Before Cecil knew what had even hit him, the trio: Norbert, Patience, hen, had fled as suddenly as they had entered, with Norbert managing to put a hole in the wall, way to the right of the one Pearleen and her pals had managed to create before. Hole was not only to the right, but way near the front. This part was still only drywall and boards, unlike the boarded up section above the tub that had been filled in with brick and concrete.
While Biggs went about collecting his bullets, he could hear the Flinger runt, King of the Comeback Punks, having bounced back in record-breaking time from his bogus fit, kicking at the panel, yelling for members of the posse to get their asses down and go after him.
“You fuckers got guns! I ain’t got one! Else I woulda shot him dead by now! What Charlie woulda wanted.”
He gave up the kicking. More cursing followed. Kid bitched about his hand hurting, his head and his hand; his pinky having been shot right off, as Cecil staggered out of the john with his duffel and flashlight, and the bullets.
CHAPTER 600
Wilburn Flinger faltered against the picket fence that separated the bishop’s property from the one the Roscoes’ dwelling was on. Wooziness and his throbbing, aching skull pulled him down, and he found himself on the ground on knees and elbows, palms of his hands pressed against either ear. To make matters worse, when he looked up, there was Mrs. Smuk. The Widow Smuk, a woman in her fifties, far from senile, as Wilburn had made her out to be in the past, was one of the lookie-loos, and she just happened to have her pet cat with her, a black-and-white tom she called Johnny Diablo.
It did not take her long to notice that the pinkie on Flinger’s right hand was missing, gone.
“Looks like you got one less dirty finger to suck now. Serves you right for burying my Johnny up to his neck.”
“Next time it won’t be up to his neck. It’ll be all the way: from his butt to the top of his head. Mrs. Schmuck.”
The callous remark unsettled the woman, gave her chills, and she backed away from the cretin. Wilburn made it to his feet, bounced back against the fence, and did his best to wade through the tall weeds and rubbish, careful not to step on a bottle or soda can and slip. Saw his grandfather limp over with that cane of his and that cheap flashlight with the annoying flicker. He could hear the widow complain about him.
“No, he won’t, Mrs. Smuk. He’s just being a pain. Likes to shake people up.”
The woman walked away from them both, not feeling good about her own safety or her cat’s.
“Isn’t that right, Wilburn?” Lloyd had the light aimed directly in his grandson’s face.
“You trying to blind me with that stupid light, Lloyd? I’m in enough pain without it.”
“Want to end up a jailbird? Is that it? Like your mother?”
“I’m hurt.”
“What are you beefing about now? Don’t beef.”
“I ain’t beefed.”
Wilburn held his right hand up to block the flashing beam from his eyes and indicate the damage done to his hand. Lloyd finally got it. Lowered the flashlight.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding?”
“Said I was hurt.”
“Hold this.”
Lloyd gave him the flashlight. He reached back for the pocketknife in the leather holster on his belt. Pulled open the blade. Yanked on the bottom of his grandson’s T-shirt with the image of Manson on the front. Told him to direct the beam on it to see what he was doing. He stuck the blade tip up, from inside, and cut a wide strip off along the hem line. Tore off a section and used it to dab the teen’s face and ear with. Tossed it aside. He wrapped the remaining swatch around Flinger’s wounded hand, tying the ends as best he could. He folded the blade closed and returned it to the holster.
“Hold it that way. Can you hold it that way?”
Wilburn nodded. He also had an expression on his face that the old man didn’t quite get.
“It’s just a T-shirt. We’ll get you another, if it’s that important to you.”
“That ain’t it.”
“What is it, then? Oh hell. You still got eleven left. Most folks only got ten fingers. You’re still ahead by one.”
“That don’t make me feel any better.”
Lloyd reclaimed his temperamental light source and helped him walk toward the front of the property. “Let’s get you some medical attention.”
“They got beeves hanging from the rafters.”
“What was that, boy?”
“Beeves hanging from the roof—in the garage. Saw them with my own eyes.”
It was enough to stop the old man cold in his tracks.
“What do you mean ‘beeves’? This ain’t Montana and you sure ain’t Farmer John.”
“Bodies. No heads. Hanging down like beeves in a slaughter house. Dressed out. Gutted. Balls and pussy cut out.”
Lloyd stopped. Turned to look at him.
“You better not be talking out of your backside, mister, because I’ve just about had all I can take. Me and Fontana both. Your sister Brenda’s a fine kid, a nice girl; you, on the other hand—”
Pearleen Bell saw them. Hurried toward them. Asked about her friend Patience.
“Have you seen her? I keep asking and no one seems to know.” She was in tears. Lloyd and W. were not certain what to tell her.
“There was a black woman, earlier. In the basement. When you come up with all them people, remember? I was standing at the top of the stairs, trying to get my hands on that chicken. . . . Couldn’t catch it, and the woman broke away from them peeps who was trying to help. She turned. Went down after it.”
Pearleen Bell wiped her face. Returned to the front. Hoped police would arrive soon enough so she could let them know the whole story and seek their help in locating her friend.
“Show me, son, where the beeves are.” Lloyd and his grandson turned to walk in back toward the garage.
“Could’ve been her friend Patience down there. Never met the woman. Don’t know her. Could be her.”
“Show me where you saw the bodies, Wilburn.”
“I let peeps know it, too. One woman went in: Jackie Schratak. She come right out and started puking. Had her daughter with her. She was crying, too. Had no right to take her little kid in there to see all them bodies hanging like beeves in a slaughterhouse.”
CHAPTER 601
Mrs. Smu
k was back. She did not have Johnny Diablo with her this time. She had, instead, a plunger. Whacked Finger Lickin’ across the back of the head hard enough to spin him around, then she did the unthinkable: shoved the plunger in his face with enough force to knock him to the ground. She lifted the plunger, then came back down with it again and again.
“That’s enough now. Mrs. Smuk. Stop it. He’s my grandson.”
She swung the plunger, slammed old Lloyd across the face himself, bringing him down. Wilburn kicked her in the leg, throwing her off balance and causing her to land on her backside.
“Kept telling him not to fool with people’s pets. Something you never want to do. He’d only be taking his life in his hands.”
“Oh, hush up. Stodgy old fool.”
Mrs. Smuk’s sister’s grown sons, Bayard and Norton, helped her to her feet, then proceeded to give Wilburn a good beating. When Lloyd attempted to pull them off, they gave him some as well. When they were done, Bayard stared at Wilburn.
“Next time you take a dump in my aunt’s sink, I take a dump in your mouth.”
Norton backed his brother with a few words of his own. “Bury her cat again, and we bury you in a septic tank. Got it?”
Wilburn was too out of it to respond. When Lloyd attempted to explain that he’d warned his grandson about all of it, he got smacked down himself once more.
“You’re responsible.” Bayard had the hard glare. “You raised him, didn’t you? You and that scatterbrained wife of yours.”
Fontana rushed to the aid of her husband, as did Brenda to help out her brother. Fontana had picked up Lloyd’s cane and was ready to strike them if they didn’t let up and back off.
“That’s enough. Now git.”
They hesitated. Stood there. Saw a woozy Wilburn reach for the German Luger in Lloyd’s aged and cracked leather shoulder holster. They didn’t want any part of that. The old man was groggy enough himself, but not so groggy that he wished to see the situation escalate and stopped Wilburn in time. He snatched the Luger out of his hand. Mrs. Smuk had stood back by the front fence with a smug look on her face; satisfied, she was, while conferring with a woman who was close to her in age and resembled her a great deal and was, no doubt, her sister.
Bayard and his brother decided the thing to do was to back down. They paused to chat briefly with their aunt and mother, and the four walked away from the scene.
Lloyd looked at Wilburn. “I warned you, didn’t I? Didn’t I warn you?” Fontana helped him up. Brenda did same for Wilburn.
“Did I not warn him it would come to this? You heard me: time and time again. You can’t keep disrespecting people and badger their pets and expect nothing to come of it.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Never felt better.”
“And you wonder where your grandson gets his attitude.”
“Feel like I got run over by a street sweeper.”
“What brought it on?”
“Ask Humpty Dumpty. Before he falls off his wall.”
They limped out of the yard, past the onlookers. Crossed the street toward home.
CHAPTER 602
Cecil dropped the duffel outside the Bunk Room. Hurried inside. Grabbed three honey buckets and scrammed out. Left one of the buckets in front of the bookcase that fronted the entrance to the tunnel, and carried the remaining two with him to the Fun Room.
He opened up the metal cabinet. Punched a couple of holes in two cans of motor oil with a screwdriver. Took one of the cans and sprinkled motor oil into the honey buckets. Dumped a fistful of bullets into both. Did it again. Poured oil about the floor—in pools throughout with what was left in this can. Left the remaining can of motor oil on the cement floor by the door.
Was back at the metal cabinet. Needed matches. Books of them. Had none. Got his hands on a few candles. Cut them down with a knife so that they were about an inch or so high. Shoved a few in his pocket, the rest he lined up on the shelf and held his lighter to. Trouble was he couldn’t get to the wicks. Wicks had to be pried out. Scooped the wax out around each wick with the screwdriver. Remembered to do likewise with those in his pocket. Satisfied, he shoved them back in his jacket. His eyes caught the cardboard box with the Trusty masks and makeup on a shelf below. Yanked it toward him. Slipped one of the masks over his head. Jammed a couple in his hip pocket. He lit the rest of the candles, and was about to start tossing them at the oil pools. Hen rushed in. Hopped about the room. That was all he needed.
Patience was at the door herself. About to follow after the chicken. Cecil pointed a hard finger at her and ordered her to stay out.
“Goddamn you and that chicken. Can’t you see what I’m up against?” She wasn’t interested. Her eyes on the hen. “Couple of drum sticks, damn you. Two wings. Hot wings soon enough, if you don’t wise up.”
He aimed his gun at the hen. “I’ll shoot it dead if you don’t do as I say.” Was tempted to shoot the woman herself now that she appeared to be like all the rest of them out there: “sane” and expendable. Might come in handy later—to use as cover. Shield. Only reason he didn’t cap her at this point. He doubted Perez and the desperate vermin with him would be brazen enough to deliberately waste a female of the species, especially one as imbalanced as Patience. Sure, she had snapped out of her daze, but how long would that last?
Perez had to know she was nutty. Certifiable.
He warned her again with a deep and threatening hiss. She finally had enough sense to listen, pay attention. Turned to leave. Norbert appeared at the door. Nutjobs slipped on oil and collided, with Mr. Fimple banging his head against the door jamb and went down. Groggy and practically out of it.
Bishop chased the hen out of the room. Lit the candles and tossed them at oil pools on the floor. Tossed the last candle into the honey bucket and kicked it under the butcher’s block.
He grabbed the unlit honey bucket, the other can of motor oil, and crossed over to the Mattress Room.
CHAPTER 603
Upstairs, on the second floor, Monroe Perez had climbed down from the attic. Mr. Duarte, in enough pain himself, cradled his dead son Carlos in his arms.
It broke Perez’s heart to see it. Froze him up momentarily. His brother Rudy, and now this other young kid. Bodies were piling up. It was hard to take.
He pulled himself out of it. Had to. Time was tight. He moved, along with those who were able, down to the first floor.
CHAPTER 604
In the Mattress Room, Biggs dragged one of the heavier mattresses to about the center of the floor, but not quite. Looked up at the ceiling periodically, guesstimating he had it positioned roughly under his own room above. Poured oil onto the mattress, some more oil into the bucket. Tied the bucket handle to a dangling chain so that the bucket itself dangled above the mattress by a couple of feet. He lit a candle and tossed it onto the mattress, and made it out to the pit.
Heard easily enough the commotion caused by Monroe Perez and the others on the first floor. Miscreants. Out for blood. So what made them any different? What made them any better? Humans were demented. He’d known it all along. Sick and twisted. From womb to tomb. At least he was up front when it came to his dislike of the human race. What set him apart. They were the original deceivers. He was the only one with any genuine character left.
He lit a candle and tossed it into the oil in the pit. There wasn’t anything flammable near enough to it, other than the door (open all the way and resting against the basement floor), which is the way he wanted it. The edge of the door was far enough away from the flames so that it wouldn’t catch fire. He didn’t want a tremendous blaze in this part of the basement just yet, only heavy smoke, dark and thick enough to hinder the posse’s agenda.
Now all he had to do was pick up the duffel where he’d left it outside the Bunk Room door and make it to the play area, light a remaining candle, toss it in the honey bucket, slide the bookcase aside, and unlock the door to the tunnel.
He reached the honey bucket, dropped the duffel a few f
eet away. He dug around in his pockets for a candle, found it, attempted to light it, had trouble with it. Glanced up from time to time in the direction of the stairwell and could make out the beams of the posse’s flashlights. Could hear them cursing and grumbling, working to get the balls to go down after him, deal with the billowing smoke and do it.
There wasn’t much of a wick, that was the problem. Couldn’t see on top of everything else. Lack of light. Got it lit at last. Tossed it into the bucket. Oil caught on fire. Choking odor of excreta and oil. Summarized his whole existence. Only he wasn’t about to make them happy by crying uncle.
Got the keys off the carabiner. Tunnel key. Find it. Too many keys to go through. It ate up time to find the key he needed.
Going to have to shove the bookcase out of the way. There was a body on the floor, blocking his path. Won’t be able to push the bookcase to the side with that dead geek, or whoever the hell that was, out of the way. Body was at the left end of the bookcase, the end the bookcase had to be pushed in.
Get back on the keys. You need the key. Pick out the key. Any other time he could have found it with a blindfold on. Stench and smoke. Had to be. No light. Excuses are going to get you killed. Neighborhood goons were on the landing, at the top of the stairs, waving those light beams around. Yammering and jabbering. Sounded like Monroe Perez among them. Calling out his name, trying to con him into giving up his exact location in order to pop him.
CHAPTER 605