The Killing Floor

by David Tully

  “No!” he shrieked, furious that he was losing his pawn.

  Matt had waited long enough. He wasn’t going to get another chance like this. And he still wasn’t sure he could trust the shaman not to double-cross him, too, since everybody else seemed to enjoy doing it so much.

  He leapt up and ran toward the mob. He raced forward, ax held high, moving fast across the beach. He pushed inanimate, somnambulant bystanders out of his way as he progressed, and they fell to the beach unprotesting.

  Dark’s pawn was clamping its fungoid fingers on the snapping, twisting face of the beast, digging them into the red orbs glaring back. There was a chance the sheriff might even wound the demon, and Dark was imparting every ounce of power he had into his vessel, while Rose was now moving toward the stone, her graying fingers about to grab it while Croatoan was distracted.

  Suddenly, Dark’s attention was diverted from the struggle between his latest puppet and Croatoan. He saw Matt racing for the shaman’s stone, pushing Rose out of the way. She fell to the beach with a wet smack, and Matt neared his goal.

  Mr. Dark turned to Croatoan just as the spider-thing tore the sheriff’s head clear of the poor guy’s shoulders. “Croatoan! Let’s table our differences for the nonce, shall we?”

  He gestured to Matt.

  The beast turned its hideous gray parody of Virginia’s face on Matt, and its red eyes glowed more fiercely, squinting in rage.

  “Get him!” Croatoan howled, and the people of Sundown once more came to life. As one, they turned and snarled at Matt, running for him with rotted, disintegrating arms outstretched, ready to grab and tear.

  They surrounded Matt, but he was already standing above the shaman’s stone, raising his ax.

  Behind the army coming in for the kill, he saw Wyandotte standing on the embankment above, watching calmly, his stony expression still imperturbable. When he spoke, his low tones carried as clear as a bell above the chaos.

  “Break the stone, stupid white man,” he advised.

  Matt didn’t need to be told, but it was nice to know, ultimately, that he and the old guy were on the same page.

  Croatoan was bounding above the heads of its soldiers, razor-sharp claws aiming for Matt’s face and heart.

  “Die!” the monstrosity screeched, hurtling forward, pushing uncomplaining rot-faces into the mud as it trampled them in its hasty progress.

  Matt paused, his ax held high above the stone, and looked at Croatoan coming at him. “Been there, done that.”

  And he brought the ax down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The dark night was suddenly, briefly filled with light.

  The hurricane forces came together in a paroxysm of energy so fierce that the storm blew itself out in an instant, blowing everyone else down, too.

  A supernova of light erupted for an instant as the ax broke the stone in half, unleashing a torrent of energy that sent the minions of Croatoan sprawling in the mud.

  And like that, the storm was over. The rain petered to a few drops that dripped from the trees, and the driving wind blew off into the distance, leaving the mountain behind.

  The mob who so lately were trying to kill Matt now lay sprawled in the mud, unconscious, all around his feet.

  Only two were left standing: Matt. And Croatoan.

  Matt gulped, suddenly taking in that the destruction of the stone had not spelled instant exit for the beast. It weaved on its many legs. (How many? The number seemed to fluctuate, and it hurt Matt’s head to look at the thing too long, too directly.) It seemed to be assessing Matt.

  It weaved some more, and a wheezing rasp emerged from somewhere in its bloated, hairy belly. Matt wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the red fire in its eyes was dimming to a darker shade. So maybe the old shaman was right. Maybe he had hurt it.

  “Die,” it seethed—and with a speed and viciousness that negated all hope it was weakening, it charged at him.

  Matt’s eyes opened in momentary shock that the thing was still up for a fight. Then he did what he did best and went at it, too. He went down on one knee as it surged over him, and the ax tore into its belly, ripping it open and exposing a clear viscous jelly that poured over the ax and the hand that clenched it.

  But the ax stuck where it had buried itself in the creature’s hide, and as the beast ran howling along the edge of the quarry, it dragged Matt with it, his clothes shredding as the sharp rocks that dotted the ground below tore through cloth and skin.

  With a high-pitched shriek that made Matt recall the deceptive female form it had adopted for its vessel, the raw materials of the child it had murdered to gain a foothold in this world, Croatoan reared on its spindly, many-jointed legs and shook Matt free.

  He flew to the earth and his ax came with him, gouging a larger rift in the beast.

  Matt fell to his back, the wind knocked out of him, and suddenly the creature swiveled and filled the sky above him.

  As it came down, Matt threw the ax, and it buried itself deep between the red eyes that blazed now more brightly than ever.

  As it fell on him, Croatoan screamed one last time and erupted into a thousand thousand flakes of ash, ash that now fell like black snow on Matt and the figures that lay prone around him, unseeing in their sleep.

  Matt lay there for a moment, watching the pieces of Croatoan—of Virginia Dare, the first European child ever born in America—as they drifted and sifted down to the killing floor.

  And as he watched them fall, he noticed that they landed on faces that were, one and all, completely clean, devoid of any trace of rot or fungus.

  Matt got up, grabbing his ax where it lay down by the water’s edge, and looked at all the townspeople he had resolved to kill the night before. Very few were gone, and now all were healed—the plague was over.

  He turned to the box that contained the dry, desiccated bones of Parson Chillingworth and saw Wyandotte there, staring down at the prey that had eluded him so long and had nearly gotten away from him again.

  “Good job, stupid white man,” the shaman said.

  “Why didn’t you just smash that rock a long time ago?”

  The old guy shook his head. “That would have released it. It was trapped. Now it is free, though banished from our world. It will be waiting for a chance to get back in, Matthew Cahill. To come for you. You watch yourself.”

  Matt nodded, not too bothered. “I’ll do that.”

  “Find yourself a fellow traveler, like Dark found Croatoan. Not all of them are evil.”

  Matt pondered the shaman’s words, still nodding absently. He knew he was right. He’d met some possible fellow travelers, like the carnival psychic and the “freaks” in New York, but he was reluctant to doom anyone else to the hell he was living. Still, it was nice to know they were there if he ever needed them.

  He looked at the discarded fracking pipe, thrown down by the crane, and out over the black water, still and undisturbed.

  He looked back to the old guy, but the box had crumbled in the open air, the skeleton of the preacher man disintegrated, and Wyandotte was gone.

  Guess the fellow traveler the old guy was talking about wasn’t him.

  Matt gave one last look at the sleeping, clean-faced forms that dotted the beach and construction site, thinking these folks were probably going to be plenty confused when they woke up from their little slumber party and that he had no desire to help them find answers to their questions.

  Then he turned and headed for the gate, his eyes on the ground, his ax over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Matt looked up only as he neared the gate, and slowed (but didn’t stop—nothing was going to make him stop now) as he saw someone leaning on a telephone pole by the open entrance, going at his lollipop like it was a lover’s breast.

  Matt watched Mr. Dark from the corner of his eye as he moved through the gate but didn’t say a word.

  And Mr. Dark just kept on sucking, eyeing Matt as he passed.

  Finally, w
hen Matt was about ten feet down the road, Dark called after him. “You’re going to pay for this.”

  Matt stopped walking and took the ax off his shoulder, turning around to face Dark.

  “If you’re so mad at me, then why don’t you kill me?” Matt asked.

  For the first time, Matt saw a flare of anger in Dark’s eye. And he knew, somehow—the little fucker can’t. He might want to. But he can’t.

  “You’re stuck with me, aren’t you?” Matt said. “I don’t know why. You thought you’d found a partner in that creature, but I took it away from you.”

  “You don’t understand a thing about what we’re doing here,” Dark said. “And let’s not get too cocky. You lost, too. Don’t forget the redhead slut back in town.”

  Matt hurled his ax with all his might at Mr. Dark’s face. The ax buried itself deep in the wood of the telephone pole, cleaving a wire in a shower of sparks.

  But Mr. Dark was long gone. Matt wasn’t surprised he hadn’t cleaved Mr. Dark’s head in half—but it never hurt to try. At least the attempt had shooed the smug bastard away again.

  He trudged over to the pole and yanked the ax free.

  Then he turned and staggered away from the killing floor, too tired and disgusted to answer any questions any waking folks inside the site might have, only desperate to get the hell away from there.

  He’d gone about five miles before he came out of his daze enough to realize he’d left his duffel bag in Zoey’s totaled car, back on Sundown’s village green.

  He had the ax. That was all that mattered.

  He kept on walking.

  The plan was Mr. Dark’s, every step of the way. As usual, he’d called the tune and Matt had danced, though at least he’d spoiled things for the bastard in the end. The master manipulator, Matt’s fellow traveler.

  The clouds broke apart and the morning light started seeping through as Matt walked down the steeply sloping road out of Sundown.

  Alone again and on the move.

  He kept on walking.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Lee Goldberg and Bill Rabkin, for taking a chance on someone who’d never written a novel and letting me play with their wonderful toys—I had a blast! Thank you!

  About the Author

  David Tully used to teach at New York University, where he got his PhD in literature, before he moved to Los Angeles for several years, to pursue his dream of becoming a script writer. He was the head of development for Oscar- and Emmy-award winners Volker Engel and Marc Weigert (INDEPENDENCE DAY, 2012) at Uncharted Territory, and then started to write for the European market as well. In Germany, he worked as a showrunner, and wrote TV series, movies, and features, including international coproductions such as THE WITCHING HOUR (aka HEPZIBAH). After five years in Europe, he moved to the United Arab Emirates, where the script for his supernatural thriller DJINN attracted horror legend Tobe Hooper to come to Dubai and direct this first international Arab horror movie—to date, the only feature-length movie shot entirely in the UAE by an American director and American writer. David’s work also includes the upcoming thrillers CASTING THE RUNES, THE SANDMAN, THE NAME OF THE BEAST, and SEE ME NOW, his adaptation of Peter Straub’s classic novel IF YOU COULD SEE ME NOW.

  David’s critical biography TERRY SOUTHERN AND THE AMERICAN GROTESQUE was published in 2010, and he is working with Tobe Hooper on a study of the director’s work based on in-depth interviews, called HOOPER ON HOOPER. Aside from being a script writer and the creative director at Shivertownroad Films (shivertownroadfilms.com), he now also works as a novelist—his next novel, THE BOOK ON THE SHELF, is a Christmas ghost story in the tradition of M.R. James, and will be available this coming holiday season. He can be reached at david.tully@shivertownroadfilms.com.