Paula didn’t seem to notice, though. She was far beyond that. “IT KILLED HIM! IT KILLED HIM – AND NOW IT’S COMING FOR US!”
* * *
Greg slept like the dead. Despite his outward good cheer, his arm had been hurting like a motherfucker. The good doctor, knowing the nearest pharmacy was over an hour’s drive away, had taken pity and handed him a small vial of codeine tablets before showing them out.
After Danni walked him back to his room – politely declining his offer to come in – he had immediately swallowed two of the pills. He had just been going through the motions with her anyway. He couldn’t let a pretty girl walk away without at least trying any more than he could give up breathing. The truth was, he hadn’t been particularly miffed by her refusal. In fact, he was pretty fine with it. The only company he really wanted tonight was the pain pills.
It turned out that what the doctor gave him had been the good stuff. Within a few minutes, he either didn’t feel the pain anymore or didn’t care, he wasn’t sure which. He decided that his last joint would be the perfect chaser. By the time he had finished it, he had been high as a kite. Hell, someone could’ve sawed off his good arm with a dull butter knife and he would have been absolutely cool with it.
He had been lying on his bed, watching the room swirl around him, when the lights went out. “But I don’t wanna go to bed yet, Dad,” he had giggled to nobody in particular before completely passing out.
His room was directly above Paula’s, yet he didn’t hear the crash as the creature came through the window. Nor did he hear the wet tearing of meat followed by her piteous screams. He was completely oblivious when Conroy McStanish came walking down the hall to investigate. Conroy’s grunts of irritation would have been far too low for Greg to have heard, even had he been awake, but he would have probably noticed the man’s surprised yelp as Paula came tearing bare-assed out of the room and past him. He would almost certainly have heard the sound of her door being torn off its hinges just moments later.
He likewise missed Conroy McStanish’s last moments on earth. Had he been awake, he most likely would not have heard the man’s surprised gasp of, “Dear mother in heaven!” as a beast straight out of his worst nightmares strode down the hall toward him. The floors of the Bonanza Bed & Breakfast were not quite solid enough to mute the sound of Conroy’s collar bone shattering as the creature slammed both its fists down onto the unlucky man. Even if they had been, Greg surely would have heard the high-pitched squeal that the bed and breakfast owner made as his head was ripped from his shoulders.
The only indication that Greg noticed anything at all was the rippling fart that he let loose as the now headless body of Conroy McStanish slammed into the wall hard enough to splatter like a crushed insect. It wasn’t much of a eulogy to mark the end of a life, but it was more than most in Bonanza Creek received that night.
His tribute to the late Mr. McStanish done, Greg grunted in his sleep and turned over. He missed the sound of Paula begging to be let into Danni’s room. He missed her weeping cries as they tried to comfort her. He even missed the heavy footsteps that came plodding up the stairs and past his room.
Chapter 24
There was no longer any order within the clan. The very last act they performed as social creatures had been to bring darkness to the two-legged things. For creatures with night vision, even a small place such as Bonanza Creek stood out like a beacon. For the clan, whose eyes and ears had grown overly sensitive in the grip of the fever, it was a source of pain as well. The light bore into their dilated pupils as they approached, causing them to cry out.
That might have been the end of the attack. The lights of the small town may very well have been enough to turn them away and send them mewling back into the depths of the forest. If so, things would have ended differently. Some of the clan would have scattered. Others would have turned on each other. The survivors would have eventually succumbed to the sickness. Perhaps a few more wayward hikers would have perished at their crazed hands, but the worst would have been averted.
But the Alpha was old and had seen much. His mind wasn’t so far gone yet that he wasn’t able to remember. He had traveled far in his lifetime, migrating as the weather changed and as more of their habitat was encroached upon. He had seen the clans of the two-legged things. Before the rage, there had been curiosity. He had observed them as they worked, as they played, and as they lived.
Though he did not understand how, he knew the false trees, the ones the two-legged things planted, carried fire within their vines. He had once seen a false tree felled by a storm. Its vines had snapped and flames had sprayed from their ends. The dwellings that housed the two-legged things had gone dark when that had happened, their source of fire cut off.
He remembered this, although rage had since replaced all of his former curiosity. Knowing what to do, he had barked and grunted to the clan to follow him. When they had hesitated, a few showing their teeth in defiance, he had torn off a tree limb and beaten them with it. That seemed to temporarily restore their sense of clan.
Once order had been reestablished, he had shown them what to do. The false trees were flimsy things. They lacked roots and could be toppled easily. The clan did not care much beyond that. All they cared was that they were finally able to let loose their rage. It was not nearly as satisfying as making something scream. When they saw the results, though – that the hurtful lights died when the false trees were felled – they attacked them in earnest.
Despite the Alpha’s warning grunts, a young female had been stupid. When the vines fell, she had gotten too close. Her body had spasmed wildly at first, and then the fire had touched her fur. She immediately burst aflame. She died, burning and convulsing, as the others watched. However, the lesson had been learned. None of the rest ventured near the vines.
There had been no hooting of remorse at her passing. The clan was too far gone for that. If anything, her death had only excited them for the bloodshed to come. Their rage had been just barely kept in check until then. Watching her die, and the promise of more death to come, finally caused them to snap.
As the last of the light died, the clan spread out. There was neither rhyme nor reason to their pattern. Their individual goals were simple: find and kill as many of the two-legged things as they could. By then, the Alpha could not have stopped them, even had he wanted to. He didn’t want to stop them, though. All he cared was that they stay out of his way. He was looking forward to the screaming, and it didn’t particularly matter much the source.
Chapter 25
Byron Clemons was happily whistling along to some Bob Dylan as he drove toward home. All the building supplies he and Grace would need to rebuild the chicken coop stronger than ever filled the bed of his Dodge Ram. In actuality, there were quite a few excess purchases as well. She would probably chew him out for it, but he just couldn’t help himself. He had a high credit limit on his Home Depot card, and nobody had been around to tell him no. He wasn’t too worried, though, having also picked up the new vanity set for the downstairs bathroom that she’d been bugging him about. If he tossed her a bone by installing it, all would be well.
As he drove along the former logging road, he passed a few other cars – most of them state troopers heading toward 160. Most likely, they were members of the search party calling it quits for the night. Damn stupid hikers are always getting lost, he mused. It had been years since he’d volunteered to help in one of those searches. Despite the fact that he and Grace were more than capable of adding their expertise, he had a bad taste in his mouth about the whole thing. Unless there were missing kids involved – and stupid ass teenagers didn’t count as kids in Byron Clemons’ book – then the damn fools could take care of themselves. Not only was it almost always their own damn fault, but most of the time they were ingrates about it after you went out of your way to drag their sorry asses back to civilization.
“I’m sure I’d have found my way eventually,” one such idiot had pr
oclaimed haughtily, as if he were Davey Crockett himself. The fat bastard had been missing for about eighteen hours. He’d been heading in exactly the wrong direction when they had found him, lost and scared – tears of joy streaming down his face at being rescued.
“Well if that’s the case, mister,” Byron had replied at the time, “howsabout I take you right back in there and you show me what for?” That shut the son of a bitch right up.
He was about a mile south of the outskirts of Bonanza Creek when he suddenly slammed on the brakes. Byron was usually a careful driver, but he had been caught up in his reverie. A stopped car loomed in his headlights, causing him to jam his foot on the brake pedal. Fortunately, his truck was kept in good repair. He managed to skid to a halt with plenty of room to spare.
He sat there for a few moments, breathing hard and cursing himself for not paying better attention. When he had himself under control, he took a good look through the windshield at the other vehicle. There was no mistaking it. It was wholly unremarkable for the most part, a grey Ford Taurus a couple years old. The bubble light stuck to the top, though, identified it immediately as Mark Watson’s car.
Putting his truck in park, he remembered that Grace had been planning on tracking Mark down on account of their chickens. It was doubtful she had caught up to him, though. The part-time deputy had obviously been on his way back from a day of combing the woods.
He’s probably off taking a piss in the bushes, Byron thought, getting out of his truck. He left the lights on. No point in wandering around blind. He decided to go and wait by Mark’s car for his return. If he could chat with him about their chickens right now, it’d save Grace the effort of doing so tomorrow.
It wasn’t until he had walked around the Taurus that he realized it wasn’t just parked. The front of the car was badly dented and partially crumpled. Stepping closer, he could see there were streaks of blood on the hood and grill. Unlucky bastard probably hit a buck. Big one by the looks of things. It wasn’t uncommon around these parts, especially after dark. Deer were everywhere, and they almost seemed to love jumping out in front of cars. “The stupid things must have a death wish,” he had told Grace one night after stopping just in time as a small herd leapt from the surrounding forest.
He leaned against the side of the car and began looking toward the woods. If Mark hadn’t walked too far, Byron figured he’d be able to pick out the beam from his cop Maglite pretty easily. It’s not like there were a lot of other light sources out there. He had scanned perhaps a quarter of his field of vision, seeing no light other than his truck’s, when he felt an emptiness where his elbow should have been touching glass. Turning, his first thought was to wonder why Mark had left the driver’s side window rolled down.
He put his hand on the door, then quickly pulled it back as something sharp jabbed him. He lifted it and saw a shallow cut on his palm, a small sliver of jagged glass stuck in it. Safety glass, my left ass cheek. He pulled the shard out and tossed it aside. Leaning in, he took a closer look at the door. In the darkness, he had initially missed all the bits of broken glass littering the front seat. The window had been broken inward, pretty violently, too, by the look of things.
He was just starting to consider this, his mind going over more scenarios, when he was suddenly plunged into darkness. At first, he thought that maybe his truck battery had up and died. It would be just his luck. Then he realized the light was still there, it was just being blocked.
He turned back toward his Dodge and saw that someone was standing directly in front of it. He couldn’t see who – all he could see was their silhouette, a dark outline against the light.
“Mark?” he called out, even as his brain made the connection that Mark Watson was a man of medium height and build. Whoever was standing in front of his truck was built like one of those wrestlers he and Grace sometimes liked to watch on TV.
His thoughts turned to that fool drunk, Joel Bean, just as the figure took a lurching step toward him. Whoever he was, he was limping badly. Byron Clemons was not an overly kind man, but he wasn’t a bastard either. He took a step forward to offer assistance. As the figure neared him, Byron held out a helping hand and touched what felt like slick fur. Before his mind could process this, a hand much larger than his own reached back toward him. It was fast and strong, far stronger than Byron would have been able to imagine had he been given time.
Sadly, he wasn’t.
The hand grasped the front of his face, and its jagged nails dug into his scalp. He barely had time for a muffled scream before the fingers cracked through the bone of his skull and pulled. The front of Byron’s head – face, eyes, bone, and muscle – was peeled like a ripe banana.
The creature leaned forward toward the raw bleeding cavern that had been Byron Clemons’ face. Its mouth closed around the gaping wound. For the next few minutes, the only sound that penetrated the dark woods was a thick slurping as it gorged itself.
* * *
Grace Clemons wasn’t psychic, nor did she even believe in such silliness. She had a cousin from Nebraska, Natalie, who claimed to have the sight. After a few drinks, she could always be counted on to pull out her tarot cards and give grand proclamations for love, money, or both. As far as Grace was concerned, though, she was full of shit up to her beady brown eyes.
If pressed for an answer to the strange feeling in her gut, Grace would have claimed woman’s intuition – or perhaps the simple knowing that develops when couples had been together as long as she’d been with Byron. Regardless of how or why, though, she felt something was wrong.
She had been feeling it all day. First, there was the incident with the chickens. Later on, their hunting dog, Zeke, had nosed around near the coop. Without any warning, he had then scampered down into the basement, tail between his legs, and huddled in a corner, whimpering. Since then, he had refused to budge from down there. Finally, the lights had gone out, although that wasn’t really an issue. Their generator had kicked in almost immediately, but something still didn’t feel quite right.
There had been plenty of outages before. Tree branches were always coming down on a power line somewhere. But even with the low hum of the genny out back, something still felt wrong. She and Byron had always laughed at those silly TV shows about haunted houses, especially when people claimed to feel like they were being watched. Now she understood. It was like a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. It was an odd feeling, something she had never felt before – not even during the many hunting excursions she’d taken with her husband.
That must be it. She was spooked because Byron had been gone all day. If it had just been that, then maybe there wouldn’t have been an issue. But all of the strangeness of the day, coupled with his being out, must be having a cumulative effect on her. “That’s me. Getting old and jumpy,” she mused out loud with a laugh that didn’t sound all that convincing to her.
Oh, this is stupid, Grace thought, disgusted with herself. Best to nip this in the bud before I wind up in the basement cowering with that fool dog. She decided to do a quick perimeter sweep of her property. The generator kept the lights on in the house, but the external system was still off due to the earlier damage. However, the darkness itself didn’t bother her. She knew the area around their house like the back of her hand.
She debated reaching for her thirty-aught-six, but then dismissed it as being overly paranoid. Still, she had no intention of being stupid about it either. She opted to strap on the holster holding her nine millimeter semi-automatic. It didn’t have much stopping power – not that she was expecting to need it – but it was light, fast, and quick to reload.
She tossed on her jacket and grabbed the three-cell flashlight that hung near the back door, checking first to make sure the batteries were fresh. She turned it on, then stepped out into the cool night. It would be the last time she ever walked out of her house. Had she known, she might have stopped to take one last look around. It was a comfortable home, and she had been happy
there. She had never been blessed with children, but that had been fine because she and Byron had been good company to each other. It had been enough for her.
Grace walked straight toward the tree line at the back edge of her property. If there were any threats to be found, she reasoned that was where they would likely be. Had she gone the opposite way, or even made a circuit of her house first, she might have heard the footsteps approaching from the direction of town – along with the wet snuffling sounds as the apelike creature breathed through its increasingly congested nostrils.
She was a full fifty yards away when it came around the house and spotted her. She was facing away from it, her flashlight beam lancing out toward the trees. Once more, if there had been just a slight change in the events that followed, Grace Clemons might have lived to see another day. Unfortunately, luck was not with her that night. In fact, had her cousin been there with her tarot cards, she might have told Grace her luck had plain ole skedaddled out of town.
The creature let loose with an earsplitting roar as it began to race toward her. Grace, already on frayed nerves, jumped at the sound and lost her grip on the flashlight. It fell to the ground and rolled a few feet away. It was here that she made her final mistake of the night. Rather than pull her gun and unload it in the creature’s direction, she bent down to retrieve the light. Maybe it was nerves or an instinctive need to see the source of her torment. Whatever it was, it was a mistake that cost Grace Clemons her life.
She did manage to retrieve the flashlight first, though, bringing it up just as the beast was upon her. She was given a momentary glimpse of fur, dripping mouth, and red eyes before being plunged into darkness again. A hand – easily three times the size of her own – tore the light away, along with the rest of Grace’s arm.
Clutching at the ragged stump, she fell with a cry. She hit the cold ground, and the beast brought its foot down onto her torso. Her ribcage gave way as if it had been made of balsa wood. Bone fragments shredded whatever organs of hers weren’t outright crushed on impact.
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