Knuckles

by Patrick Logan

  The cracker was on its side again, the six heavily knobbed legs lying lifelessly atop one another. For a second, Eliza feared that she might have imagined the entire ordeal, that maybe she had finished the flask of whiskey and had nodded off. But as she stared closely at the shell she realized the tiny orifices were still opening and closing. Their contractions were no longer blasting in sync, and there was no longer a consistent rhythm to it.

  But they were still… fluttering.

  Eliza cautiously bent down and picked up her phone, all the while keeping her eyes locked on the creature. When the shell seemed to hitch one final time and the orifices stopped pushing air entirely, she cautiously took a step forward.

  She watched the cracker’s lifeless form for two whole minutes, before finally moving back to her table. Her hand darted out and snatched the scalpel, then she waited another minute before actually leaning close to it.

  It most definitely was dead… again.

  She poked the shell with the scalpel, but it didn’t move. Then she tapped the horrible mouth, and again it just lay there. With every uneventful poke and prod, Eliza became more courageous.

  It was then that she noticed something different about the mouth compared to before it had reanimated.

  It was wet.

  And it smelled of whiskey, confirming her previous notion.

  Eliza reached for her flask and took a large swig, aware of the irony of her actions but not caring.

  Then she brought the phone back to her ear.

  “Sheriff White? You still there?”

  There was a short pause, during which she could hear distant shouting and animated voices.

  Then the Sheriff came back on the line.

  “Eliza? Jesus, Eliza are you okay? What happened? I was just sending a car—”

  “I think… I think I know how he’s keeping them alive.”

  Chapter 5

  Sheriff White was defeated in both the literal and figurative sense.

  The speech he had given to his men a few days ago had meant something, had meant everything. It had inspired himself as well as them.

  But that had been before.

  Tears began to make fresh tracks down his soggy cheeks.

  That had been before Nancy…

  His body suddenly shuddered with sobs as the image of her pale face, eyes and mouth wide, pressed against the interior of the thick plastic bag flooded his mind.

  The truth was, all Sheriff White wanted to do was just as Coggins suggested: arm themselves to the teeth and blast the shit out of that prick Walter and the band of delinquent bikers he had holed up with.

  And take any and every man that got in their way.

  “Goddamn it,” he whispered between sobs. His head dropped, and he buried his face in his large hands. “God-fucking-damn it.”

  He had dismissed all of the deputies earlier, told them to go home and get some sleep before they started up again tomorrow. White himself had the intention of doing the same, as he hadn’t gotten more than a few hours since Nancy’s murder.

  But it was clear now that there was no way that that was going to happen.

  Death. Askergan reeked of death.

  Paul recalled sitting in the office playing poker with Coggins just as the snow had really started to fall all those years ago.

  With the first, unique flake, had come an overwhelming feeling of impending rigor that settled on the County had yet to relinquish its hold.

  It will end with Walter’s death, he promised, but even in his own mind, the words sounded hollow.

  There was just something about this place, something ancient, something—

  A hand rested on his shoulder, and Sheriff White pulled his head out of his hands and brushed the tears away. After instructing all of his deputies to go home, he had receded to his office where he had resumed his conversation with the pathologist that the FBI had sent on loan.

  But now, as he stared up at Coggins’s long, bearded face, he realized that not all of his men had listened.

  “Paul?”

  The Sheriff sniffed.

  “Yeah.”

  Coggins looked down at his feet.

  “I’m so sorry, Paul. So fucking unbelievably sorry.”

  Sheriff White swallowed hard, his throat so dry that he was unable to offer a response.

  Instead, he simply nodded. Part of him was grateful for the company, but part of him also wanted to be alone. And then there was the other part, a small yet persistent segment of his brain, that felt anger toward his longtime friend. After all, he had left—Coggins had abandoned him here to take care of everything on his own.

  And that said nothing of the fact that while Walter had three hostages, including Alice, it was Nancy—his Nancy—whom he had murdered.

  Which wasn’t fair.

  Perhaps Coggins felt some of this anger, as when he pulled up a chair, he didn’t lean in close as Paul might have expected. Instead, he kept his distance, leaning with his elbows on his knees, fingers interlacing.

  For a long while neither of them spoke, and Paul closed his eyes. Just as he felt some semblance of sleep begin to take hold, Coggins’s voice drew him back.

  “I promised myself I would stay away, you know?”

  Paul remained silent, eyes still closed.

  “Not just stay away from this police station, or even Askergan as a whole. But to forget everything about the County, everything that even so much as reminded me of the place. I just—I just wanted to put it all behind me. There’s something fucked up here, something that started in the storm, back at the Wharfburn Estate. Or maybe it started before that, long before—I dunno. But there is something just wrong here, as if it were built atop the gates to hell.”

  With the final sentence, Sheriff White opened his eyes and he observed Coggins. The man was staring at the floor, and his lack of expectation of a response coupled with the monotone intonation suggested that he was speaking to himself as much as to Paul.

  And that was okay; Paul didn’t mind if the man vented. If anything, it saved him from doing the same.

  “This fucking place is cursed. And now what? Cartels? What the fuck are cartels doing in Askergan of all places? And Nancy? They fucking killed Nancy and they still have Alice… and Corina… they have her too. What else—”

  At long last, Paul spoke, interrupting Coggins’s rant.

  It appeared as if he had something to say after all—something that was eating him up inside, something that he hadn’t shared with anyone.

  “I don’t know what’s going on in this place—I have no fucking clue. Everything that happens in Askergan like an awful, horrible nightmare.” His voice hitched. “Man, Nancy and me… we were trying to have a baby, just…”

  And then Paul lost control completely and started to sob again. Coggins stood and embraced his big friend, his own tears flowing freely now.

  They held each other for a solid minute. When Paul found he could breathe freely again, he gently removed Coggins’s arms from his shoulders, then wiped his tears away with a tissue from the box on the table.

  He would have time later to deal with his own emotions, his broken heart. After all, Nancy was dead; and as badly as he wanted to change that, there was nothing to be done.

  But there were others—Alice, Corina, all of Askergan—that were still alive. And he could help those people.

  Or would die trying.

  “We need to be strong; it’s not just about me and you or even Alice or Corina or—” his voice hitched and he paused to clear his throat before continuing, “—Nancy. It’s not only about them. It’s about all of them, as well as the other four-thousand or so Askergan citizens. We need to be strong, we need to finally bury the demon that has been haunting us since the storm.”

  He interlaced his fingers and then slowly raised his eyes to meet Coggins’s. When his Deputy tried to look away, Paul stared even more intently, holding his gaze.

  “But I’m not sure I can do that, because, the
thing is, only one of us knows what we are truly dealing with here in Askergan… isn’t that right?”

  Coggins chewed the inside of his lip and shrugged, his shoulders slumping.

  “We should just focus on the cartels for now. And that fucking priest… I can’t help think that he looks familiar. And that bodyguard or henchmen… fuck, the two of them spring up out of nowhere, and we are supposed to not only trust them, but team up with them like a ghetto Justice League?”

  Sheriff White shook his head.

  “I don’t trust them, either of them, but I don’t see much of a choice. We are low on soldiers here, Coggins. And the FBI’s resistance to send in any help is… puzzling.” His thoughts turned to his discussion with Dr. Dex, and a shudder ran through him. “But here’s the thing: before me, before you, before maybe even Dana, Askergan did things a little different, has dealt with its own problems on its own. I ain’t afraid to ask for help, but the fact is that nobody’s gonna show.”

  He paused, giving Coggins a moment to mull these facts over. Then he leaned in close and continued in a low voice.

  “But despite Walter, the fucking cartel, the priest… that’s not the root of the problem here, is it?”

  Coggins opened his mouth, his eyebrows raising up his forehead. Paul continued quickly before the man could get defensive.

  “There are good people in Askergan, Brad. Good boys. And in order to save them, I need to know what we are really dealing with. What you dealt with.”

  Coggins opened his mouth to reply, then it snapped shut audibly. Even six years later, the horror ran deep, the fear over what he had seen in the Wharfburn Estate plastered on his face like black henna on an albino rhino.

  “I need to know, Brad. Everything that has happened after the storm is just dandelion leaves. Let’s fucking rid Askergan of this curse once and for all—pluck it out by the root. And that starts by telling me exactly what we’re dealing with. What do you say, Coggins?”

  Coggins sighed, rubbed his eyes.

  Then, to the surprise of both men, he started to speak.

  ***

  Sheriff Paul White was a practical man, one with simple needs and uncomplicated tastes. Normally, the tale that Coggins had woven would have made him question not only the sanity of the man across from him, but his own just for entertaining it.

  But after what he had seen—after the crackers—how could he doubt it?

  Why would he doubt it?

  Coggins had provided him with some answers, but more questions burned in the back of his mind. Staring at the man across from him, visibly spent, sullen cheeks, dark eyes, Paul decided not to press for the time being.

  “I heard from the pathologist today,” Sheriff White offered instead.

  “What? Who?”

  “The pathologist that the FBI sent. She said that one of the crackers seemed to come to life when she poured some alcohol on it.”

  Coggins screwed up his face, his own incredulity now seeping through the cracks in his visage.

  “Alcohol?”

  “Yeah, no idea how she tested that theory. But your story…the fact that you managed to stun or poison the thing with the… uh… with the heroin?”

  Coggins nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “And you think that this thing, what the hell did you call it? Oot-bekan?”

  “Oot’-keban,” Coggins corrected.

  “Okay, well this Oot’-Keban, laid those eggs that gave birth to these crackers? Used the fucking skins to incubate them?”

  “Fuck man, I dunno,” Coggins replied, suddenly exasperated. “I told you, I don’t even know if the two things are connected. I mean, it was what? Six years between the two events?”

  Paul nodded. He wasn’t certain that the evil in the storm and the crackers were connected, but it just seemed like too big a coincidence not to be.

  “Let’s suppose for a moment that they are related. So the crackers attack the town… and then you blew up the culvert with Tyler inside, and the hive was destroyed?” He cringed when referring to the boy as a hive, but it sounded marginally better than incubator.

  “I put that kid out of his misery and the fucking crabs staggered and started to go white. All those little fucking cracker bastards died.”

  “But now the Doctor is saying that alcohol can bring them back.” Paul was thinking out loud now, but Coggins didn’t seem to mind. “You know what they’re saying, right? About Walter? Tyler’s father?”

  “I’ve heard things.”

  “Yeah, that he has one cracker that’s still alive. And that he can somehow command it to breed more of the damn things. You think that maybe it’s because he was high? That he is high, that is keeping the cracker alive?”

  Coggins shrugged and threw up his hands.

  “How can that be?”

  Paul was letting his thoughts get away from him, and he knew that his enthusiasm was unwarranted, unrequited, but after what happened to Nancy, he was desperate to grasp onto even the dimmest glimmer of hope.

  “What if… what if the things in the eggs adapted. You know, because of how you killed the thing—”

  “—Oot’-keban.”

  “—because you killed Oot’-keban with drugs, its parasite offspring were not only immune to it, but thrive on it.”

  Coggins seemed to mull this over for a moment. Then he shook his head.

  Clearly, he didn’t share the Sheriff’s optimism.

  “I fucking don’t know, man. Sounds fucking crazy, but everything about this whole fucking thing is crazy. I just don’t know.”

  Paul leaned back in his chair, the metal spring creaking beneath his weight. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer tinged with unadulterated optimism.

  Still, he was unwilling to give up on this line of thinking.

  It was all he had.

  “Well, if what I’m saying is true, then I know how we can stop him.”

  Coggins finally looked up.

  “How?”

  Sheriff White’s shoulders lifted.

  “Cut off his drug supply, that’s how. And maybe, just maybe, we can use the cartels to our advantage.”

  Chapter 6

  The sight of the horrible tapestry that hung across from Corina Lawrence made her stomach lurch. She still couldn’t believe that one moment she had been talking to the woman, working on coming up with a plan to escape when the monster who called himself the Crab had come in brandishing a machete.

  The bastard had made Corina watch as he placed the blade against the soft skin on Nancy’s throat. The woman had tried to remain calm, defiant, brave, but when that dull blade started sawing into her flesh, she could contain herself no longer.

  Nancy screamed.

  But thankfully this didn’t go on for long; Nancy’s distended agony soon digressed into hissing, wet pops. And then even these sounds ceased.

  Corina had closed her eyes, barely able to stifle her own sobs. With tears staining her porcelain cheeks, the Crab continued to work as he had with the others, slowly and methodically stripping Nancy of her skin.

  When the cutting and tearing finally stopped, Corina thought the horrors had ended.

  She was wrong.

  Mustering the courage to finally open her eyes again, she was surprised to see that Nancy’s body was gone.

  But it was apparent that the Crab wasn’t done with her yet. The thing was squatting on the floor, Nancy’s still moist skin lying across his lap. At some point, he had lowered the skins that hung above his desk and was now working something that resembled a leather shoelace complete with a metal hook between his pale, thin fingers.

  The bastard sutured Nancy’s skin to the others’ before raising the entire patchwork quilt to the ceiling like some sort of commemorative flag.

  And that was where Corina stared now, unable to look away despite the vomit still drying on her lips. Hanging from her wrists, the metal cutting into her flesh so deep that she could feel blood tracing lines down to her elbows, she had
a perfect vantage point of what remained of five different people.

  It was horrifying, especially Nancy’s skin, as it hadn’t quite dried like the others. The others, she could pass off as animal hides, push the reality from her mind, but not with that one.

  Not with what was left of the body of the woman who had hung on her left.

  There was, of course, still a woman hanging to her right, but she was unconscious and had been that way since she had arrived.

  Or maybe she was already dead.

  Maybe they all were, and the Crab sitting at the massive desk was Satan himself, forever torturing them for their infernal sins.

  For strangling Kent Griddle to death.

  Corina swallowed hard, and sent a silent prayer to Jared, begging him to hurry. If she wasn’t dead already, then she was destined to follow Nancy into the afterlife shortly.

  Of this, she was absolutely certain.

  Corina lowered her gaze from the tapestry to the sick fuck sitting behind the over-sized desk. He was hideous, a horrible twisted idea of a man with thick purple and green streaks that crisscrossed his entire torso.

  And that said nothing of the abomination in his shoulder, one of the things from the Wharfburn house.

  The bikers might call him the Crab, but Corina only knew him as a pathetic junkie named Walter.

  He wasn’t Satan, she realized. He wasn’t anything, really.

  As she watched, eyes blazing, Walter bent over and inhaled a line of cocaine as thick and pregnant as a silk chrysalis. And then he threw his head back and shook it, a horrible bubbling sound coming from his throat that reminded her of Nancy gagging on her own blood.

  Corina hoped that he OD’d right there in front of her, in that moment. She wished for it, not caring if it probably meant that she would hang forever, until bacteria within her body consumed her from the inside out.

  But luck wasn’t with her these days.

  There was a knock at the door, and both Corina and Walter turned toward the sound.