by Ray Garton
"Not in about a year."
Byron turned his flashlight on a ring of keys he'd taken from his belt, found the right one and unlocked the basement door.
"This is where they keep all the kitchen supplies and the food," Byron said, shining the flashlight into the darkness below as he started down the stairs. "The garlic's probably in the free—" He stopped half way down with Bill right behind him.
Sounds.
Movement.
A gasp...a sigh...a giggle...a low, gurgling whimper...
Byron swept the light around the basement until the beam found them: a boy and girl on a coat spread out on the concrete floor. The boy was on his back, jeans pulled down around his knees, the girl squatting atop him, hands flat on his chest as she ground her hips on him until she froze and they both looked up.
"Oh, shit!" the boy groaned, scrambling to get up. "Shit, oh shit, man, shit!" The girl moved of f of him and he began pulling up his pants before he was off the floor.
"Kevin?" Byron asked.
Bill watched the girl...
"Kevin, what the hell' re you doing?" Byron snapped.
...and the girl watched Bill as she slipped into her pants casually.
He whispered to Byron as he pushed by on the way down the stairs, "She's one of them."
Smiling, the girl swept up her coat, saying, "C'mon, Kevin, hurry up."
"Oh, shit, son of a bitch, I'm, shit, man, I'm fucked," Kevin rambled.
The girl's eyes remained on Bill's as he hurried down the stairs and her comfortable smile never faltered. As if without a thought, she bounded up onto the stack of crates beneath the small window, which she tore from its hinges and tossed to the floor where the pane shattered musically; her right leg kicked up expertly, her foot clanged against the upturned garbage dumpster just outside, and the dumpster slammed into the opposite wall, clearing the passage.
Kevin had stopped to stare in awe, his belt still unfastened.
Bill and Byron were half way across the room, the flashlight beam dancing through the darkness.
She held out her arm to him and said firmly, "Give me your hand."
"What?"
"Give me your hand!"
Kevin did as he was told and she swept him off the floor, lifted him in both arms and pushed him out the window smoothly, then started to crawl out after him.
Thunder cracked in the room and a brief flash turned the walls white.
The girl slammed against the wall when a glistening black-red flower blossomed in the middle of her back. She bounced from the wall, leaving behind a splash of red, and fell off the crates to the floor where she was still.
But only for a moment.
As the two men closed in on her, she sprang to her feet like a gymnast and hunched slightly, arms out at her sides, ready to defend herself. She was still smiling.
"Holy mother fucking shit sweet Jee-zus hear my prayer!" Byron bellowed, his feet skidding over the concrete as he quickly backed away, staring at the large black hole between the girl's breasts. He shined the light directly on the wound and saw that it was moving. Raw meat, shedding very little blood, was quivering...undulating...gelling...
His right hand, clenching the gun, began to convulse as he lifted it to fire again, babbling his horror in a high-pitched string of profanity as Bill dashed toward the girl from the side.
She did three things in the same second: she moved three big steps forward in a single leap, swung her right fist into Bill's chest, knocking him into the crates, and kicked up her left leg, connecting with Byron's right hand and sending the gun into the darkness. Then she slapped her hand over his face, pressed her fingers into his fleshy cheeks and pulled him toward her, getting very close.
"I'm already dead, you stupid nigger," she rasped, then slugged him in the stomach, slamming him into the wall beneath the stairs.
By the time she left the basement to join Kevin outside, the wounds beneath her tattered blood-stained clothes were healed.
As Adelle led him away from Bill and back to the table, Doug watched her and his stomach tightened. It had been bad enough seeing her walking through the dark with, of all people, her ex-husband—Doug recognized him from the family snapshots he'd seen—but the look on her face as she hurried stiffly—nearly jogged, in fact—around the tables and chairs told him that something bad was going on.
"Adelle, what the hell is the matter?" he asked.
She squeezed his hand. "Not now."
"What do you mean, not now? What were you doing with him? And what the hell is he doing here?"
She stopped and faced him. She was white with panic but managing to hold herself together. It wasn't until that moment that he realized she was trembling all over. "I'll explain in a minute, Doug, I promise I will, but first we have to get the girls away from that booth."
"Away from the—why?"
"That man." She nodded toward the booth beside theirs. "We have to get them away from him." Before he could ask why, she clutched his shirt in both hands, made a sound that could have been laughter or sobs... or both, closed her eyes and mouth tightly and took a deep breath, speaking quietly and with an exaggerated sort of calm. "Doug, something horrible has happened. Something I couldn't believe if I hadn't seen it. You know I don't panic easily. You know the shit I deal with in ER and you know I handle it pretty well but the truth is that I am about five seconds away from becoming a screaming convulsing vegetable and before that happens I want to get the girls away from that man and into another part of the building. Please, just please humor me for now and I'll tell you everything in a minute." Without waiting for him, she hurried to the table, leaned down and began gathering their things as she whispered to the girls.
Doug followed them out of the restaurant, stopping to pay their bill and glance back at the man in the booth beside theirs; he seemed agitated and was constantly looking around, as if waiting impatiently for his partner. Hurrying to catch up with Adelle and the girls, Bill went into the travel store, trying to keep himself from becoming too upset until he'd heard Adelle's story.
The store was lit by several lanterns and the two cashiers carried flashlights. People milled about in the darkness, their feet shuffling on the floor, their voices blending into a steady drone punctuated by an occasional laugh or a curse from a disgruntled trucker. Adelle went all the way back to the darkened soft drink coolers.
"Mom, what's going on " Dara whined. "I wasn't through eating. I'm hungry."
Through clenched teeth, Adelle snapped, "Just be quiet and don't—" She stopped suddenly, flinching as if slapped. Her face relaxed and she put an arm around Dara, whispering, "I-I-I'm sorry, honey, I didn't muh-mean to bark at you like that." She embraced the girl for a moment, breathing, "I'm sorry."
This behavior worried Doug more than anything he'd seen so far.
"What's the matter, Mom?" Dara asked quietly. "You're crying."
Adelle backed away, shaking her head in dismissal.
"Mom," Cece asked, "where's Jon?"
Then she lost it. She buried her face in her hands, dropping her purse, and cried softly.
Doug stepped forward and said, "Look, girls, tell you what, since you didn't finish your dinner, here's twenty bucks. Get anything in the store. How about some junk food, huh? Dorritos? Anything you want this time, no rules. Look, there's cold sandwiches in this cooler and drinks over here."
"Can I have a Jolt Cola?" Cece asked expectantly.
"Even a Jolt. Go ahead—" He handed Dara a twenty. "— it's on me. Your mom and I've gotta talk."
"No!" Adelle blurted. "No, girls, you stay right here, duh-don't move. You can eat anything you want, just do it right here. Kuh-keep the wrappers and we'll pay for it later."
They spoke in whispers as the girls ate, Adelle doing most of the talking while Doug stared at her in utter disbelief...at first. Then, when she told him about Jon: "Son of a bitch, where is he, Adelle, why the hell didn't you say so in the—"
"Shh, keep your voice down, I don'
t want the girls to hear. Doug, I'm telling you, there's nothing we can do. That thing is...I saw that thing and there is nothing we can do. Except wait for Bill."
"Oh. Wait for Bill." The churning of jealousy stirred his guts and he paced a moment. "What the hell's Bill doing, changing his clothes in a phonebooth?"
"He's one of them."
"One of—you mean one of those—oh, God, Adelle, you don't really believe that shit, do you?"
"Goddammit, Douglas, I don't know what they are and I don't care what you call them, but they're out there and he knows how to handle them. I don't know, maybe they're just like us and they've got some kind of-of-of horrible duh-disease or something, but that thing, Doug, I saw that thing, and if everybody here knew about it there'd be a fucking stampede, except nobody has anyplace to go! Now will you please for God's sake just—" She stopped again, grinding her teeth. "I'm sorry, dammit, I'm sorry."
Doug stepped forward and held her as she whispered in his ear.
"I yelled at Jonny. At the table...in the car...I yelled at everybody, even after the wreck, I mean... we all could've been killed, but I...all I did was yell. And now he's...if that thuh-thing...oh, Doug, I just can't live with the thought of my last words to my son being angry ones..."
Bill tried to get back on his feet immediately but was surprised by his clumsiness, by the drained feeling that covered his body, as if the attack had doubled the weakness he'd felt before.
"Byron?" he croaked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here."
Bill saw the flashlight glowing on the floor, heard Byron shuffling around until he found it, then watched him retrieve his gun.
"I don't know why I'm here," Byron said, coming toward him, "'cause if I had any brains I'd get the fuck gone. You okay?"
"I'm...not sure. Don't feel too well, tell you the truth."
Claude Carsey groaned in the dark as Byron helped Bill to his feet. They went to Claude's side and shined the light on him. His face was bloody and his eyes gummy and swollen; he looked up at them with his mouth yawning and hands quivering.
"She killed me?" he rasped. "Am I dead? Am-am-am I guh-gonna die?"
Byron squatted down and touched Claude's cheek with the barrel of his gun. "No, you're gonna help us, that's what you're gonna do."
Getting on his knees, Bill asked, as firmly as he could manage, "What does garlic do to them, Claude?"
"Gar...lic? Well, I s'pose you could find out easy enough."
"Remember what I just said about you not dying?" Byron growled. "One more remark like that and I'm gonna have to make myself a liar."
"Makes 'em sick," Claude said. "Ruh-real sick."
"When they touch it?"
"No, no. Tha's just when they smell it. Don't know what the hell happens when they touch it." He turned his head and spit some blood onto the concrete.
Bill and Byron exchanged a glance.
"What happens if they can't get back in the trucks, Claude?"
Bill asked.
His swollen eyes widened slightly. "If they can't...I don't know, but it must be bad, 'cause that's the only thing they're scared of. Scared shitless of it. And why the fuck don't you know what hap—" He glanced at the gun. "—well, I mean...I figure you oughtta know what sunlight does."
"Ain't gonna be very sunny out today," Byron told Bill.
Claude said, "Weather don't seem to matter to 'em none. Least not that I can tell. But...what, um...oh, Lordy, no, you guys ain't thinkin' of...no, you ain't gonna do that, no, you can't do that. You know what my brother would do to me? He'd fuckin' kill me's what he'd do." He sat up, pleading now. "No, please, you can't do that, you can't—"
But they ignored him.
"The other guy," Bill whispered. "We've gotta get him down here and out of the way."
Byron stood as Bill gave him a description of Phil Carsey and told him where Phil was seated.
"You gonna be able to handle this guy?" Byron asked, handing Bill the flashlight.
"Sure." Bill gave Claude a weak but toothy grin and said, "You won't give me any trouble as long as I promise not to give you a kiss, will you, Claude?"
Claude began to cry...
Byron hurried up the stairs, putting the gun in his jacket pocket, but never taking his hand from it. In the restaurant, he spotted the other Carsey brother easily and approached his booth casually. Standing behind him, Byron leaned forward and, through the jacket, pressed the gun to the back of Phil's neck, whispering, "Now listen, motherfucker." Byron knew that nothing struck fear into the heart of the average white man quite as effectively as a large black man with a gun calling him motherfucker and it tickled him. "You're gonna get up real nice and slow, like you and me are old friends, and you're gonna come with me across the restaurant to the hallway back there without doing anything funny, or my little friend here's gonna take your face for a ride clean across this building, you understand?"
Phil swallowed dryly and nodded, then, clumsily but with caution, scooted out of the booth and walked a step ahead of Byron to the hallway as the barrel of the gun bumped his lower back with each step. At the end of the hall, Byron removed the gun from his pocket, opened the door and motioned Phil down the stairs, calling to Bill for some light.
In the basement, Phil spat at his brother, "What the fuck'd you do, asshole?"
Byron poked him hard with the gun. "Shut up." To Bill: "Flash that around. There's some rope down here somewhere."
"Holy shit," Phil chuckled coldly at Bill. "You."
"Yeah, me. Sit down with your brother."
Bill got a fat coil of rope from a hook on the wall, handed the gun to Bill, placed the flashlight on a crate and wasted no time in tying the Carsey brothers back to back. As he grunted and strained, pulling the rope tight, Bill said, "Maybe you can give us a little more information than your brother could, Phil."
"Go fuck yourself," he gurgled.
Byron moved quickly, enraged; he slapped the gun from Bill's hand, dropped to one knee, grabbed as much of Phil Carsey's hair as he could and pulled his head back hard until Phil was gagging, the shoved the barrel against his throat, spraying his fat face with spittle as he spoke in a rapid continuous stream: "Now you listen to me motherfucker. I'm a little edgy tonight and I'd be more than happy to blow your Goddamned brains out right now because you smell really bad and better yet I know you'll die and after some of the shit I've seen tonight that would be a pretty fuckin' reassuring sight, but maybe you'd like it better if my friend here took a little blood sample from one of your filthy fuckin' veins like them bitches you been haulin' in your trucks do while you're sittin' on your fat ugly ass eatin' chili, huh, would you like that, you wanna see what that's like, huh?"
Phil's face reddened and trembled with anger, but his eyes gave away his fear. "Whuh-what? Whatta you want?" he whispered.
Byron let go of him, stood and took a deep, steadying breath, then handed the gun back to Bill and continued securing the ropes.
Bill's voice was unsteady: "That thing out in your truck has my son. I wanna know what to do about it."
Phil smirked. "Have another one."
Bill leaned close, touching his nose to Phil's and showing his fangs. "What...is...she?"
Phil's nostrils flared with disgust. "The queen. Sorta... sorta like their... leader, I guess. Their mother, kinda. She knows what they're thinkin', what they're doin'...least, she seems to. Hell, half the time, I think she knows what I'm thinkin' and doin'. I-I-I...look, I'm sorry, but...if she's got your son...you ain't gonna see him alive again. She likes 'em young."
With clenched teeth: "I want to kill her. How do I do it?"
"Yuh-you think I know? You duh-don't think I'd've tried by now if I knew? I hate that fuckin' thing, she scares the shit
outta me, but there ain't a Goddamned thing I can do about it."
"Where'd you find her?"
"Oh, no. She found us. We...we was independents. Went all over the country haulin' shit. We was in upstate New York on our way to pick up a
couple loads a pastries. Y'know, packaged shit like Ding Dongs and Ho Ho's. We stopped at a rest stop. Late at night. There was a few cars there, but...there was no people. Place was dead. Hah. Dead. Went into the bathroom and there they was. These three guys. Feet stickin' outta three different stalls. Blood on the floor. They looked dead. Claude got sick. I got scared. Ran outside and looked in them other cars parked in the lot. There was...more bodies. Never looked, but I figured there was more in the ladies' room. All I wanted was to get the fuck outta there, y'know? And then... there she was. Just as big and ugly as you please seepin' outta the dark. A great...big...Goddamned demon. Tha's what I thought she was at first, I swear, a fuckin' demon from Hell." He'd gotten out a breath and panted a moment. "Thuh-they'd been stayin' in this little cave way out in back of the rest stop. Made us go to a...a little cemetery way out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere. Made us..." He clenched his eyes against his memories, "...made us dig up coffins to haul 'em in. Wuh-we had to...empty all these fuckin' coffins. Practically dug up the whole place before we had enough. All those—oh, sweet Jesus— all those bones and-and-and cuh-corpses. Rotted and smelling and... the smell, man, you just don't know the smuh-smell." He stopped a moment, eyes closed, then: "Seven years ago. Believe me, buddy, if I knew how to stop her..." He just shook his head silently, eyes wide.
"Then why do you do it, asshole? Why don't you just stop? " He gave a soft, unpleasant giggle. "Hee... hee-hee...steady money and, uuhhh...hee-hee...lotsa travel a course, a-and, lessee...buh-because she, hee-hee, won't fuckin' let us. Never let us, you kuh-kiddin'? That...cunt...flies, man!" he hissed. "She's got fuckin' wings like a great big fuckin' bat!" His flabby cheeks quivered like gelatin, his eyes filled with tears and his shoulders quaked within their bonds.
Byron finished tying and stood slowly, staring at Bill with a look of growing horror.
Phil's words came in a wet, trembling breath. "I'm fucked, man. Me'n him both. We'll be doin' this the rest of our fuckin' liiives. And there ain't nothin' you can do... to stop it." He broke down then, sobbing openly, his chin pressed to his chest, head bobbing.